THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


COUNTRY  MARGINS 


0f  a  f 


BY 

S.   H.    HAMMOND, 

AUTHOR   OF    "HILLS,    LAKES,    AND   FOREST   STREAMS." 
AND 

L.    W.    MANSFIELD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "UP-COUNTRY  LKTTKRS." 


NEW  YORK: 
J.C.DERBY,    119    NASSAU    STREET 

BOSTON  :  PHILLIPS,  SAMPSON  &  CO. 
CINCINNATI  :   H.  W.  DERBY. 

1855. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 
J  .  C .  DERBY, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


E.  ff>.  JrnfciiiB,  ^Jrintrr, 

No.  -J»i  KK.\XKK.>KT  STKKBT. 


DEDICATION. 


TO  THE  HON. THOMAS  A.  JOHNSON, 

A   JUSTICE   OF  TUE   SUPREME    COURT    OF  THE    STATE    OF   NEW    YORK, 


MY  DKAR  SIR  :— 

You  are  to  some  extent  responsible  for  the  publication  of  this 
book.  It  was  your  own  suggestion  that  "  COUNTRY  MARGINS  "  should  be  print 
ed  and  bound  in  a  volume.  Whether  that  advice  was  prompted  by  the  kindly 
prejudices  of  ancient  friendship,  or  a  just  appreciation  of  the  merits  of  the 
work,  you  see  it  has  been  accepted.  I  therefore  take  the  liberty  of  dedicating 
this  book  to  you.  If  other  excuse  is  necessary,  I  trust  it  will  be  found  in  the 
recollections  of  bygone  years. 

I  am,  very  respectfully, 

Your  obedient  servant 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  "HILLS  AND  LAKES." 


PREFATORY. 


THE  Editor  of  the  ALBANY  STATE  REGISTER  received  one 
day  from  an  anonymous  correspondent,  a  communication  which 
occupies  the  first  chapter  of  this  book.  He  published  it,  with 
a  playful  commentary,  supposing,  at  the  time,  that  there  the 
matter  would  end.  A  few  days  afterwards,  he  received 
"  MARGINS  No.  Two,"  which  he  published  with  a  commentary 
in  like  manner.  From  such  beginning  the  correspondence 
grew  on,  until  it  acquired  the  dimensions  presented  in  the  book 
which  is  now  given  to  the  public.  The  writers  were  entire 
strangers  to  each  other  until  the  "  MARGINS  "  were  more  than 
half  written,  and  it  was  an  accident  which  made  them  ac 
quainted  at  last. 

At  the  suggestion  and  upon  the  solicitation  of  many  friends, 
who  professed  to  be  pleased  with  the  correspondence,  most  of 
which  was  published  in  the  REGISTER,  it  goes  before  the  public 
in  its  present  shape.  It  makes  no  claim  to  any  peculiar 
literary  merit.  It  was  simply  the  result  of  a  digression  in 
the  routine  of  the  labors  of  a  daily  journalist,  intended  to 
lift  his  paper  out  of  the  dull  monotony  of  politics,  rather  than 
for  publication  in  a  book  form.  It  does  not,  therefore,  chal 
lenge  criticism,  nor  affect  to  compete  with  the  finished  pro 
ductions  of  popular  authors  of  the  day  for  public  favor.  The 


yi  PREFATORY. 

end  of  its  publication  will  have  been  accomplished  if  it  shall 
afford  amusement  for  the  leisure  hours  of  those  who  desire 
relaxation  from  labor  or  severe  study. 

But  little  more  than  one  year  has  gone  by  since  the  last 
"  MARGIN  "  was  sent  down  to  the  printer,  and  now  the  "  Up- 
Country"  home,  where  the  writers  first  met,  is  lonely  and 
desolate.  Of  the  happy  group  there  gathered  on  that  pleasant 
summer  night,  three  have  departed  to  another  home. 

The  light,  the  joy,  of  the  house  is  gone. 

Time  itself  is  but  a  "  margin,"  dear  reader  ;  it  is  but  a  step 
over  its  borders. 

S.  H.  H. 

ALBANY,  June,  1865. 


CONTENTS. 


COUNTRY     MARGINS. 
I 

INVITATION    T'O    DINNER. 

PAGE 

"  Soft-Boiled  Gravel"— The  Bear  Performance— Speckled  Trout .  < 9 

II. 
THE  HALL  CLOSET. 

"Lie  Still,  My  Darlings"— The  Smile  of  a  Wife— Don't  Touch  the  Wine- 
Spring  Chickens.... 17 

III. 
COUNTRY  LUXURIES. 

What  a  Beautiful  Shower!— Tell  Him  to  Come— Young  Onions— New-     - 
Mown  Hay— A  Kiss  Between  the  Eyes— Climbing  a  Mountain—"  Small 
Bob" 27 

IY. 
EDITOR'S  LATITUDE  AND  LONGITUDE. 

Fourteen  Stone  Weight— A  Beautiful  Morning— The  Standard  of  Beauty 
— The  Milk  in  the  Cocoanut — Sources  of  Great  Eivers — A  Sensible  Con 
clusion—Don't  Come  on  Friday 42 


\lii  CONTENTS. 


A  FRIEND  FROM  THE  OLD  DOMINION. 

PACK 

The  Reverend  Friend— L.  P.  of  the  F.  F.  V.— Rising  Sun-Taking  a  Rest 
—Turkey  Shooting— First  Song  of  the  Lark— A  Good  Trout  Stream- 
Returning  Home  to  Die  ^ 

VI. 

A  CHAPTER  FOR  THE  SABBATH. 

A  Good-Bye  to  the  L.  P.— Bishop  Heber's  Poetry— Great  and  Glorious 
Truths— Old  Memories— The  last  Farewell  72 

VII. 
ROARING    RIVER. 

Stop  Every  Thing— Where  are  we  Going?— Mountains  and  Rivers— All 
Aboard  I— The  Waters  of  Health— Mile  Posts  by  the  Wayside 82 

VIII. 

HOW  POEMS  LOOK  IN  PRINT. 
A  Little  Poem— Briefs  not  Plenty— The  Gentleman  in  Black 94 

IX. 

ISOLATION. 

Pleasant  Summer  Pictures— The  Young  Indian— No  Man  his  own  Master 
—Sleep,  Beautiful  Sleep !— Brook  -Trout  and  Dreams— A  Forest  Dream 
—Caprices  of  a  Dream— The  Dream  Over 110 

X. 

D,  WITH  A  DASH  TO  IT. 

Troubles  of  an  Editor— Blowing  off  Steam— Spelling  Figs  with  a  P— An 
Excited  Bridegroom— Mists  of  Early  Morning— A  Marvellous  Good 
World 120 


CONTENTS.  ix 

XL 

SEPTEMBER. 

I'AQE 

A  Eainy  September— Beautiful  Summer  Days— Gold  upon  the  Landscape 
—What  did  Katydid  do?— Song  of  the  Cricket— Days  of  Sunshine  and 
Storm— The  Village  Schoolmaster— Matronly  Composure  133 

XII. 

OCTOBER. 

Glory  and  Pomp  of  October— Modern  Stimulants— One  of  God's  Laws—* 
The  Betrayed  Girl -A  Solitary  No— The  Pippins  in  the  Orchard— The 
Favorite  Apple-Tree— The  Thief  in  the  Apple-Tree—She  Served  Him 
Eight— The  Midnight  Culprit— Just  Measure  of  Eetribution 150 

XIII. 

NELLY. 

Little  Nelly  Fast  Asleep— Precocious  Children— Love  of  Little  Children— 
The  Garden  of  Eden — Nothing  Free  From  Danger — Adam  and  Eve  no 
Childhood 173 

XIV. 

DREAMS. 

Trifles  Light  as  Air— Christianizing  the  World— The  Phantasies  of  Dreams 
—Nothing  New  Under  the  Sun— Pure  Spring  Water— A  Dream  of 
Childhood— An  Extraordinary  Prayer 186 

XY. 

THE  BRIGHT  MORNING— AND  JULY. 
The  Death  of  Suzie— An  Obliging   Host— A  Father's   Becollections— 
"  Independence" — Northern  Lakes — They  are  Gone,  All  Gone — Dragon 
Oysters 201 

XVI. 

THE  DINNER,  AND  GOOD-BYE—DECEMBER. 

How  did  the  Editor  Best  ?— A  Struggle  with  Boots— Shake  Hands  and 
Part— Test  of  Spring  Chickens— Never  Floored  but  Once— A  Brick  in 
the  Hat— Farewell 21T 


CONTENTS. 


COUNTRY     B  A  M  B  L  E  S. 
I. 

CANANDAIGUA— PENN  YAN— CROOKED  LAKE  BATH 
— HORNELLSVILE. 

PAOB 

A  Beautiful  Landscape— Declining  Years  of  Life— renn  Tan  Then  and 
Now— A  Beautiful  Sheet  of  Water— A  Beautiful  Valley— Crooked  Lake 
Reminiscences— Killing  My  First  Deer— One  of  the  First  Settlers— A 
Frightened  Negro— Good  Old  Times— A  Bear  Instead  of  a  Deer— Pass 
ing  Down  the  Lake— The  Sweet- Voiced  Birds— Foaming  Cascade- 
Thriving  Village  of  Bath— Daylight  Among  the  Hills— Excitement  of 
the  Chase — "Gentlemen  of  the  Jury!" — Brook  Trout — A  Hunting 
Anecdote— Who  Killed  the  Deer?  283 

II. 
NIAGARA    PORTAGE— WELLSVILLE-COUDERSPORT. 

The  Mighty  Cataract — A  Niagara  in  Miniature — A  Great  Lumber  Region 
—Shrewd  Tax  Gatherers 279 

III. 

LAKE  CHAMPLAIN— BURLINGTON-KEESEVILLE—  AU 
SABLE  FORKS— FRANKLIN  FALLS-SARANAC  LAKE 
—ROUND  LAKE— TUPPED  LAKE -BOG  RIVER— ON 
TIIE  BANKS— THE  BLACK  FLY. 

An  Imaginary  Picture— Islands  in  the  Lake— When  I  Get  Rich— A  Won 
derful  Gorge — Brave  Men  arc  Sleeping — On  an  Elevated  Plain— A  Fire 
in  the  Woods — A  Country  Tavern — Music  of  the  Frogs — An  Involun 
tary  Plunge— Rich  Mines  of  Iron— The  Two  Settlers— "Seminary  of 
Learning"— Deep  Fishing— The  Rapids— An  Eccentric  Habit— The  As 
tonished  Buck— The  Slumbers  of  Night— A  Fellow  Sportsman— Beaver 
Canals— The  Saranac  Woods 287 

A. 

SUNRISE  IN  THE  COUNTRY 333 

B. 
"TIIE  SAINTS'   REST"..  ..339 


COUNTRY 


AND 


Journalist. 


COTJNTjRY 


I. 


INVITATION    TO    DINNER, 

THERE  are  river  margins,  and  brook  margins, 
the  margins  of  lakes  and  seas,  and  of  those  little 
beauties  in  high  places  (hid  away,  often,  in  moun 
tain  tops),  which  we  call  ponds.  There  are  also,  of 
late,  book  margins.  I  live,  sir,  in  the  country,  and 
am  in  the  habit  of  filling  in  my  book  margins  with 
such  notes  and  exclamations  as  come  uppermost  in 
the  course  of  reading,  some  of  which  are  possibly 
highly  original,  (quien  sabe  f)  but  quite  lost  to  the 
great  world. 

Shall  I  send  them  down  to  you,  Mr.  Editor  ?  For 
I  think,  if  handsomely  printed,  my  friends  might 
some  day  read  them,  by  mistake  supposing  them  to 
be  by  some  "  valued  correspondent"  other  than  I. 
What  say  you  ?  How  do  you  make  it,  yea  or  nay? 

Yery  good.     ISTow  I  can't  go  to  town  to  read 

books,  or  fill  margins  for  you.    In  fact,  I  can't  read 

a  book  in  town.     I  can  let  my  eyes  run  up  and 

down  its  pages,  but  I  do  not  take  the  book,  unless 

1 


10  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

indeed  it  is  hard  and  abstract.  Did  you  ever  read 
ISAAC  TAYLOR'S  "  Physical  Theory  of  Another 
Life"  ?  I  carried  that  book  all  about  New  York 
city,  some  years  since,  pocketing  it  at  every  sally 
out  of  doors,  and  reading  it  in  omnibi,  and  all  un 
heard-of  places  for  meditation  and  study,  being 
utterly  crazed  with  its  enchanting  speculations.  In 
the  same  way,  I  could  sit  down  on  a  drygoods  box 
and  work  out  a  conic  section  ;  but  for  a  book — say 
of  travel  or  sentiment— you  need  repose ;  and  it  is 
so  much  the  better  if  you  have  all  proper  accompa 
niments  and  circumstances,  i;armonies  of  place, 
mood,  &c.,  and  for  this  and  these  there  is  but  one 
place  under  the  heavens — to  wit :  the  country. 

Besides,  it  is  necessary  to  dine  before  taking  up  a 
book,  and  you  can't  dine  in  town.  To  dioe,  you 
must  have  peas ;  and  this,  as  Ross  Brown's  .Dr. 
Mendoza  says,  is  imposs.  Nor  can  you  have  salad. 
ImposSj  also.  You  may  have  shot,  and  you  may 
have  pale  round  things,  which,  with  infinite  butter 
ing,  cannot,  however,  express  peas. 

We  had  peas,  sir,  the  other  day,  for  the  first  time 
this  season.  They  were,  perhaps,  the  best  that  ever 
came  on  the  table  since  the  creation  of  the  world. 
"What  peas  were  before  the  deluge,  cannot  now  be 
pronounced.  Adam  and  Eve  may  have  had  a  few 
messes  equal  to  ours,  but  never,  probably,  after  be 
ing  driven  out  of  that  beautiful  garden.  Your 
early  peas,  sir,  are  abominations. 

I  have  undertaken  peas  in  town,  before  now,  and 


"SOFT-BOILED     G  K  A  V  E  L  .  11 

the  memory  of  those  undertakings,  even  to  this 
day,  is  fall  of  wrath  and  indigestion.  After  repeat 
ed  failures — Waterloo  defeats  so  to  speak — I  have 
been  again  cajoled  by  the  sight  (optical  delusion  en 
tirely)  of  peas.  Drawing  the  dish  carefully  up, 
I  have  said,  "Ah,  here  we  have  them  at  last — at 
last,  thank  the  sweet  heavens.  My  dear  wife,  hold 
your  plate  ;  these,  my  excellent  wife,  are  the  thing, 
eh?  (a  little  nearer,  my  dear)  so  tender  as  they 
look,  so  delicate."  "  Yes,"  says  my  wife,  "  and  so 
little,  so  young."  "  Of  course,  my  darling,  so  little, 
so  young,  so — "  and  here  I  raise  to  my  mouth 
a  spoonful,  and  wait  for  the  sensation.  It  comes, 
the  sensation ;  and  as  it  comes,  my  wife  and  I  com 
pare  notes  with  a  look  ;  but  oh,  my  countrymen ! 
Don't  ask  me  to  enlarge.  Think  of  a  mouthful  of 
pills,  or  of  soft-boiled  gravel !  and  this,  in  the  hope 
— the  joyful  anticipation  of  peas. 

Why,  sirs  and  madams,  the  pea  is  the  most  gentle 
and  delicate  thing  in  all  the  garden.  It  is  not  to  be 
forced,  but  must  have  time,  as  all  things  must,  to  be 
good.  Don't  force  it,  therefore ;  don't  undertake  to 
improve  it ;  don't  water  its  life  out,  but  give  it  a 
fair  chance,  soil,  and  sun,  and  showers ;  and  let  it 
grow,  as  God  designed  it,  into  a  properly  perfected 
pea.  The  frost  should  approach,  but  not  touch  it ; 
and  then,  as  it  matures  into  podhood,  I  incline  to 
think  that  lightning  (round  about)  is  good  for  it — 
a  cutting  up  of  the  air  giving  that  freshness  to  the 
atmosphere  which  the  pea  takes  into  its  heart,  and 


12  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

makes  a  part  of  its  life.  Whence  it  gets  its  melting- 
ness  (as  of  strawberries),  its  pure  apple  richness,  and 
its  creamy  fulness  of  satisfaction  to  the  palate,  is 
known  only  to  the  little  round  body  itself,  which 
has  a  way  of  its  own,  and  is  taught,  doubtless,  by 
heaven  itself. 

But  I  was  talking  of  books.  I  have  been  reading, 
of  late,  in  the  afternoons  of  two  days,  before  and 
after  Sunday,  "  The  Old  House  ly  the  River,"  a  book 
which  I  like  at  once,  for  its  fair  margin  and  hand 
some  look.  It  is  a  book,  also,  to  the  temper  of 
which  Sunday  is  no  interruption.  It  will  prepare 
you  for  the  day,  and  the  day  prepare  you  again  for 
the  book.  But  on  that  holy  day  there  are  few  books 
that  I  care  to  read,  save  the  one  Book  of  all.  For 
in  that  I  find  better  sermons,  better  sentiment,  better 
philosophy,  better  news,  better  poetry,  and  better 
and  more  glorious  facts  (good  for  all  eternity),  than 
in  all  the  utterances  and  exclamations  of  men  since 
the  world  began. 

But  "  The  Old  House"  is  written  with  extreme 
purity  of  style,  almost  matchless  in  this  respect,  and 
with  the  clearness  of  sunlight,  and  I  thank  God  that 
a  man  can  be  found  to  step  out  of  the  whirl  of  city 
life,  and  write  a  pure  book  like  this. 

Dr.  Tyng,  I  have  been  told,  can  write  only  in  the 
tumult  of  the  city.  But  his  nature  is  a  fiery  one. 
Whereas  the  secret  of  this  author's  success  is,  that 
his  true  life  is  not  in  Wall  street  (eminently  suc 
cessful  as  he  is  there),  but  in  the  forest,  and  on  the 


THE   BEAR  PERFORMANCE.        13 

sea,  and  in  that  world  of  beautiful  sentiment  which 
surrounds,  as  with  a  glory,  the  heart  of  woman. 
Touches  of  humor  appear  occasionally,  but  the  au 
thor's  range  is  mostly  too  high  for  humor.  He  does 
not  care  to  come  down  to  it.  There  is  one  charm 
ing  exception  in  the  Bear  Hunt,  which  is  the  most 
exquisite  piece  of  comicality  I  have  seen  for  many 
a  day.  Hot  as  the  weather  is,  I  would  be  willing 
to  ride  twenty  miles,  without  stirrups,  to  see  that 
bear  performance.  But  the  author  has  touched  the 
picture  so  perfectly,  that  one  can  sit  at  home,  quite 
at  ease,  and  see  the  whole  thing  to  the  life.  There 
are,  elsewhere,  passages  of  great  power,  as  in  "Ben's 
Death"  in  Delirium  Tremens,  "  The  last  leap  of  the 
Panther,"  "Mr.  Stewart's  Story,"  etc.,  but  I  like 
best,  for  my  especial  humor,  "  The  old  Chuch  and  its 
Pastor,"  "  Old  Friends,"  and  chapters  of  a  kindred 
nature.  But  any  one  who  enters  "  The  Old  House 
by  the  Kiver,"  will  find  none  but  pleasant  company; 
and  if  any  one  can  read  the  book  without  finding 
that,  he  is  a  better  man  for  his  intercourse  with 
that  company ;  he  ought  to  retire,  at  once,  to  private 
life, — his  being  abroad  is  dangerous  to  the  common 
wealth. 

And  now,  Mr.  Editor  (stopping  a  moment  to 
bracket  my  thanks  to  the  author  for  having  written 
this  book,  which  I  should  like  to  have  written  my 
self),  I  will  say — as  to  peas — that  we  shall  have 
another  mess  in  a  few  days,  and  very  soon  every 
day,  or  as  often  as  the  weather  will  permit.  After 


14  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

a  week,  you  can  scarcely  come  amiss.  I  have  never 
seen  your  face,  but  if  we  have  peas  that  day  for 
dinner,  I'm  sure  I  shall  see  a  glad  one.  "Will  you 
come  ?  Yours,  . 


Our  correspondent  has  placed  us  in  a  dilemma. 
We  like  the  country,  and  we  like  peas — and  we  like 
an  invitation  to  dinner.  But  it  is  always  conve 
nient  to  understand  two  or  three  preliminary  matters 
before  accepting  such  an  invitation.  In  the  first 
place,  it  is  a  great  advantage  to  know  where  you  are 
invited  to  dine.  It  will  not  do  to  indulge  in  con 
jecture  on  that  subject;  you  might  go  to  the  wrong 
house,  and  get  down  by,  and  possibly  under  the 
wrong  table.  You  might  tax  the  hospitality  of 
John  Smith  under  an  invitation  from  James  Brown. 
Then,  again,  it  is  well  to  know  with  whom  one  is 
invited  to  dine.  Not  that  we  are  aristocratic,  or 
insist  upon  associating  (especially  about  dinner 
time)  with  "the  first  families."  We  can  eat  a  good 
dinner  at  almost  any  body's  expense.  We're  liberal 
in  such  matters/  we  are.  But  we  are  of  the  national 
school,  silver  gray,  and  no  mistake.  Suppose,  on 
sitting  down  to  table,  we  should  find  ourself  cheek 
by  jowl  with  a  rank  woolly,  oran  out  and  out  aboli 
tionist.  He  wouldn't  let  politics  alone,  of  course,  he 


SPECKLED   TROUT.  15 

wouldn't ;  he'd  take  his  stand  on  his  platform,  he'd 
denounce  the  Union  as  "  an  unholy  league"  and  the 
Constitution  as  "an  atrocious  bargain,"  and  draw 
ing  the  esculents  on  his  side  of  the  table,  demand  of 
us  concessions  in  favor  of  his  opinions,  or  leave  us 
to  go  away  empty.  That  would  be  subjecting  our 
principles  to  a  test  unnecessarily  severe. 

An  anonymous  invitation  "to  eat  peas,"  is  all 
very  well  in  its  way,  but  it  isn't  according  to  our 
taste.  There  is  too  much  of  the  ideal  about  it.  It 
lacks  the  solid  ingredient  of  sober  fact.  If  our  cor 
respondent  will  certify  us  of  the  place  where  we  are 
to  "eat  the  aforesaid  peas,"  and  the  person  with 
whom,  and  upon  whose,  invitation  we  are  to  eat 
them,  he  will  have  to  lay  the  venue  a  good  way  off, 
and  have  a  pretty  hard  customer  for  a  host,  if  he 
finds  we  decline,  provided — the  trimmings  are  all 
right.  We  take  it  for  granted  we  shall  have  some 
thing  besides  "peas,"  something  solid,  something 
savory  and  pleasant  to  the  taste,  such  as  spring 
chickens,  nicely  broiled,  or  speckled  trout  fresh  from 
the  brook,  or  maybe,  a  brace  or  two  of  woodcock, 
or  snipe,  or  a  pair  of  fat  wild  ducks,  and  we  shouldn't 
be  at  all  offended  to  see  them  come  on  the  table  in 
succession,  one  after  another  like,  together  with 
salads  and  such  vegetables  as  relish  with  them. 
And  then  a  bottle  or  two  of  old  port,  or  sherry,  or 
Madeira, or  even  Champagne,  wouldn't  "rile"  us  in 
the  least.  The  whole  affair  might  conclude  with 
delicate  pastry  and  fruits,  ices,  and  such  cooling 


16  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

things  as  add  to  the  comforts  of  the  inner  man  in 
the  warm  summer  days.  We  never  take  offence 
at  such  trifles.  But  we  can't  really  think  of  accept 
ing  an  anonymous  invitation  to  eat  peas — we  can't, 
indeed. 


II. 

THE    HALL    CLOSET. 

You  have  confused  me  a  little,  Mr.  Editor.  The 
blood  has  been  mounting  up  and  about  my  temples 
all  the  long  day,  at  the  thought  of  your  unparalleled 

impu I  mean  your  remarkable  effront ,  or 

at  least,  your  peculiar  comment — upon  my  invita 
tion  to  peas. 

But  I  am  cooler  now,  and  touching  the  great 
topic  of  dinner,  I  will  say  briefly,  that  wine  with  me 
is  a  memory — a  reminiscence — or,  if  you  please,  an 
abstraction.  To  many  it  is  a  extraction ;  I  make 
it  an  abstraction,  by  putting  it  in  the  hall  closet, 
and  turning  the  key.  My  wife,  I  will  not  deny, 
was  a  little  elated  at  the  idea  of  having  a  city  Ed 
itor  to  dinner ;  but  when  I  repeated,  one  by  one, 
your  extraordinary  expectations,  she  became  very 
thoughtful  and  silent. 

Why  you  see,  sir,  the  "  spring  chickens"  we  could 
count  upon,  by-and-bye ;  but  the  "trout,"  the  "  wood 
cock,"  the  "snipe,"  the  "wild  ducks,"  and,  coolest 
of  propositions,  that  all  these  should  be  brought  on 
consecutively,  keeping  half  a  dozen  cooks  busy,  and 
quite  confounding  my  father  and  my  dear  old  aunt 
with  such  unheard-of  proceedings — all  these,  and 
1* 


18  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

ices,  and  wines,  in  our  quiet  country  home !  Oh, 
sir,  I  blush  at  the  thought  of  it.  Moreover,  I  with 
draw  the  invitation.  Don't  come  to  dinner.  I  for 
bid  it. 

The  other  day,  reading  an  account  of  three  sun 
rises* — one  on  a  high  Northern  river,  one  on  Lake 
Champlain,  and  one  from  the  Berkshire  Bowl — I 
said  to  myself,  "Here  is  a  true  poet;  and,  moreover, 
a  philosopher.  Genial,  I  warrant  you.  In  short,  a 
man  to  throw  both  arms  around!"  " Doubtless,"  I 
continued,  "this  man,  like  Milton,  drinks  water 
only,  and  feeds  upon  peas  and  pond-lilies,  and  the 
like  wholesome  things.  How  calmly  and  gloriously 
he  writes  of  the  morning!  How  handsomely  he 
poises  himself  above  the  world !  Like  a  great  white 
cloud,  close  up  to  the  sky,  with  a  sunny  radiance 
about  him,  and  earth,  and  all  shadows  and  under 
currents  far  away  below,  quite  out  of  his  beat." 

Now,  who  would  have  thought,  Mr.  Editor — I 
put  it  to  you,  yes,  sir,  to  you — who  would  have 
thought  that  this  man  of  brilliant  sunrises  was  hold 
ing  forth,  even  then,  through  the  strength  of  yes 
terday's  dinner  ?  Yesterday's  snipe  and  woodcock, 
or  (more  shocking)  yesterday's  wine  ? 

I  have  wine,  sir.  It  is  in  a  dark  closet  under  the 
hall-stairs  ;  and  there  it  will  remain.  I  have  turned 
the  key  and  hid  it  away ;  and  no  man  will  find  it. 
Sauterne  and  Claret,  and  Old  Port  and  Heidsick, 
and  with  them  also,  "  Old  Q."  and  Otard ! 
*  See  Appendix,  A. 


"LiE   STILL,   MY  DARLINGS."      19 

There  they  are,  and  sometimes  I  talk  to  them  a 
little  through  the  key -hole.  "Lie  still,  my  dar 
lings,"  I  say  to  them,  "  no  one  shall  touch  you. 
You  are  all  locked  in,  and  the  key  lost  forever. 
No  Editor  shall  come  nigh  you.  Keep  cool,  and 
above  all,  keep  your  tempers.  You,  my  pleasant 
Sauterne,  my  charming  Sauterne,  my  ambrosial 
Sauterne  ;  you,  who  quite  flattered  me  last  summer 
that  a  half-bottle  every  day  was  building  me  up 
into  a  strong  tower,  only  to  break  me  down  in  the 
fall,  like  the  confusion  of  Babel :  you,  Old  Ports, 
costly  old  chaps,  but  doubtful,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  as 
to  your  integrity :  you,  my  only  two  Heidsicks ; 
two  only  of  the  many  silver  tops  we  had,  what  time 
my  wife  and  I  "came  home  forever," — lie  quiet, 
all  of  you,  and  take  your  ease.  Let  us  have  no 
souring  from  neglect ;  no  poppings  of  summer 
wrath,  my  excellent  quondams,  but  be  patient,  all, 
and  bide  your  time." 

In  this  manner,  sir,  I  keep  them  under,  and  in  a 
healthy  way.  As  to  "  Old  Q.,"  the  oily  old  fellow, 
there  is  no  danger  of  his  exploding.  He  is  as  strong 
and  as  firm  as  the  stars,  and  as  high.  He  has  great 
command  of  himself,  "  Old  Q.,"  .he  never  effer 
vesces  or  runs  into  sour  humors.  Stand  him  belly- 
down,  or  on  his  feet,  it  is  all  one  to  him.  Besides, 
as  I  have  said,  the  key  is  lost,  and  they  all 
know  it. 

Wherefore,  Mr.  Editor,  until  I  may  suddenly  find 
that  key,  or  until  you  can  dine  in  a  plain  way,  with 


20  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

say  for  wine,  a  glass  of  can  de  sucre,  or  the  like,  I 
see  no  way  to  meet  your  wants. 

Lastly,  as  to  who  and  where  I  am,  the  motion  is 
not  now  in  order.  Perhaps  I  am  a  country  clergy 
man  recreating  in  a  country  paper.  (I  shall  preach 
to  you  ;  aye,  sir,  I  shall  lay  on  and  spare  not.)  Per 
haps  I  am  a  country  farmer,  trying  to  get  his  wife 
to  read  the  news.  Perhaps  a  retired  valetudinarian, 
amusing  himself  with  a  city  Editor.  Perhaps,  and 
perhaps,  and  perhaps. 

In  any  case,  for  the  present,  my  special  invitation 
is  (and  my  wife  joins  me  heartily),  DON'T  COME  TO 
DINNER.  Yours,  . 


There  it  is  again,  just  our  luck  to  a  dot.  "We 
knew  'twould  be  so.  "We'd  have  made  our  affida 
vit  to  the  fact  beforehand.  Just  because  we  in 
dulged  in  an  imaginary  dinner,  (a  poetical  license,) 
on  an  anonymous  invitation,  we're  to  lose  a  mat 
ter-of-fact  meal.  Surely  this  never  could  by  pos 
sibility  have  happened  to  any  body  but  ourself.  See 
the  hardships  of  the  matter.  When  a  man  fancies 
his  legs  under  a  gentleman's  table,  he  may  as  well 
fancy  any  variety  and  amount  of  good  things  upon 
it.  Where  it  is  all  fancy,  why  not  swing  loose,  give 
rein  to  the  imagination,  and  let  it  choose  its  gait  ?  It 
costs  no  more  to  eat  an  imaginary  good  dinner,  than 
an  imaginary  poor  one.  And  yet  we're  to  be  struck 


THE   SMILE   OF   A  WIFE.        21 

off  the  list  of  invited  guests,  and  denied  even  the 
consolation  of  "  peas."  Well,  we're  used  to  such 
misfortunes. 

"  We  never  loved  a  plant  or  flower,"  &c. 

"  My  wife,  I  will  not  deny,  was  a  little  elated  at  having  a  city 
editor  to  dinner  ;  but  when  I  repeated,  one  by  one,  your  extraor 
dinary  expectations,  she  became  very  thoughtful  and  silent." 

We  give  up  the  "woodcock"  and  the  " snipe." 
We  surrender  the  "  brook  trout"  and  the  "  wild 
ducks,"  let  them  all  go — they 're  no  great  things  at 
best ;  good  enough  in  their  way,  but  by  no  means  a 
sine  qua  non  for  a  good  dinner.  We  give  up  our 
"  extraordinary  expectations,"  and  settle  down  on  the 
"  spring  chickens."  We  would  not  bring  a  shade 
of  thought  or  sadness  to  the  face  of  a  good  wife  for 
worlds.  We'd  have  her  smile.  There's  heaven  in 
the  smile  of  a  true  woman.  We  would  not  have 
her  silent  for  a  gold  mine.  There's  music  in  her 
voice  sweeter  than  the  song  of  harps.  We  would 
have  her  always  happy,  always  cheerful.  No  cloud 
should  ever  darken  the  sunshine  of  her  pure  heart, 
if  we  could  rule  her  destiny. 

"  Now  who  would  have  thought,  Mr.  Editor,  I  put  it  to  you, 
yes,  sir,  to  you,  who  would  have  thought  that  this  man  of  bril 
liant  sunrises  was  holding  forth  even  then,  through  the  strength 
of  yesterday's  dinner,  yesterday's  '  snipe/  '  woodcock'  or  (more 
shocking)  yesterday's  '  wine  ?' " 

All  illusory,  all  a  mistake,  but  we  can  bear  it. 


22  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

We're  used  to  such  things.  It  isn't  the  first  time 
we've  been  made  the  victim  of  man's  imperfectibil- 
ity  of  judgment,  or  his  positive  injustice.  The 
"  Yesterday"  was  a  dark  day  with  us,  'twas  wash 
ing-day  with  our  wife  at  home,  a  day  of  cold  meats, 
of  half-picked  bones  and  attenuated  coffee,  a  day 
(and  who  is  not  thankful  that  it  should  be  so  ?)  that 
comes  but  once  a  week,  a  day  of  all  days  that  brings 
no  inspiration  to  the  poet's  fancy,  no  buoyancy  to 
its  wing.  "  Yesterday's  snipe  or  woodcock,"  quotha ! 
Our  very  dear  friend,  these  things  are  not  even 
"  memories"  with  us.  It  may  be  we're  getting  old, 
that  the  mists  which  hang  around  the  memory  when 
we  pass  into  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf,  obscure  our 
vision  of  the  past ;  but  try  as  we  will,  we  can  recall 
no  such  incident  within  the  circle  of  half  a  dozen 
years  as  ''snipe  and  woodcock."  Good  things  we've 
eaten  at  home  and  abroad,  things  savory  and  pleas 
ant  to  the  taste,  but  of  "  snipe  and  woodcock"  we're 
innocent,  indeed  we  are.  And  "yesterday's  wine," 
too,  is  a  fancy,  pure  ethereality ;  we  derived  no 
strength  from  wine — we  made  no  terms  with  the 
"  deceiver."  Wine  never  had  a  place  on  our  table, 
nor  in  "our  closet  under  the  stairs."  We  never 
took  it  into  our  dwelling,  never  associated  with  it 
on  any  terms.  We  look  upon  wine  as  our  enemy, 
we  do  indeed.  Wine  floored  us  once,  and  only  once, 
and  then  'twas  by  treachery.  Under  the  influence 
of  "  repentance  and  soda  water"  we  cut  its  acquaint 
ance  forever.  Aye !  laugh  as  you  will,  'tis  gospel 


DON'T  TOUCH   THE  WINE.         23 

truth ;  point  to  the  imaginary  dinner  we  sat  down  to 
at  your  table,  still  we  affirm  its  truth. 

"  I  have  wine,  sir,  it  is  in  a  dark  closet  under  the  hall  stairs, 
and  there  it  will  remain.  I  have  turned  the  key  and  hid  it 
away,  and  no  man  will  find  it.  Sauternc  and  Claret,  and  Old 
Port  and  Heidsick,  and  with  them  also,  "  Old  Q."  and  Otard. 
There  they  are,  and  sometimes  I  talk  to  them  a  little  through 
the  key-hole." 

Don't  do  that — it's  dangerous.  Hold  no  commu 
nion  with  them.  Eve  talked  with  the  serpent, 
maybe  at  first  "  through  a  key -hole."  She  talked 
too  often;  she  ate  the  forbidden  fruit  after  talking, 
and  the  woes  that  darken  human  destiny  followed. 
Have  no  word  to  say  to  them.  Eather  go  boldly 
among  them  with  a  club  and  slay  them,  smash  them 
into  ten  thousand  pieces,  throw  them  away  to  perish 
as  they  deserve  upon  the  dunghill.  It  is  this  talk 
ing  to  the  bottle  "  through  the  key-hole"  that  has 
ruined  thousands,  aye,  millions  of  men ;  that  has 
snatched  an  army  of  souls  from  Heaven,  and  peopled 
the  dungeons  of  perdition  with  fallen  spirits.  It  has 
broken  the  hearts  of  thousands  upon  thousands  of 
mothers  and  fathers,  and  sent  thousands  upon  thou 
sands  of  wives  in  sorrow  and  desolation  of  spirit  to 
the  grave.  It  has  given  thousands  upon  thousands 
of  sons  to  the  prisons,  and  daughters  to  shame.  It 
is  not  enough  that  you  "have  locked  them  in  a  dark 
closet  under  the  stairs,  and  hid  away  the  key." 
Doors  grow  rusty  iipon  their  hinges,  locks  fail  in 


24  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

their  office,  wine  grows  in  strength  and  power  of 
seduction,  with  age.  You  are  not  safe,  your  chil 
dren  are  not  safe,  your  servants  are  not  safe,  while 
the  wine  bottles  are  in  that  closet.  Turn  them  out, 
break  them  in  pieces.  'Tis  your  only  sure  protec 
tion.  Talk  not  of  your  strength,  your  power  of  re 
sistance.  Look  around  you,  see  how  many  strong 
men,  strong  in  intellect,  strong  in  moral  power,  who 
mocked  at  the  warning  of  danger,  and  derided  the 
prophecy  of  their  fall,  who,  in  the  face  of  all  these 
things,  became  victims  at  last.  Aye,  victims  !  and 
in  spite  of  the  admonitions,  the  prayers  of  mother, 
father,  wife,  children,  all  that  could  strengthen  re 
solve,  went  down  through  the  drunkard's  infamy  to 
the  drunkard's  grave.  Don't  talk  to  those  bottles 
"through  the  key-hole." 

"  Wherefore,  Mr.  Editor,  until  I  may  suddenly  find  that  key, 
or  until  you  can  dine,  in  a  plain  way,  with — say  for  wine,  a  glass 
of  can  de  sucre,  or  the  like,  I  see  no  way  to  meet  your  wants." 

That's  what  we  call  sensible  talk.  Don't  waste 
time,  our  dear  sir,  in  looking  for  the  key.  Let  it 
go.  Get  your  "  plain  dinner"  ready.  Never  mind 
the  "  sweet  water."  The  pure  element  that  bubbles 
up  from  beneath  the  rock,  at  the  foot  of  the  old 
birch,  or  the  ancient  maple,  will  answer  our  turn. 
Certify  us  of  the  time  and  place,  and  we'll  be  there. 
Prepare  your  "spring  chickens."  Let  them  be 
broiled  to  a  demonstration,  over  hard  wood  coals — 
crisped  and  browned,  but  not  burned.  Baste  them 


SPUING   CHICKENS.  25 

with,  fresh  sweet  butter,  and  sprinkle  them  with 
parsley.  We'll  come.  Serve  them  up  hot,  smok 
ing  from  the  gridiron.  Accompany  them  with  peas, 
young  potatoes  and  beets.  We'll  come.  Don't  for 
get  the  white  wheat  bread,  baked  the  afternoon  be 
fore,  as  the  Patlander  would  say,  and  the  pure  yel 
low  butter,  and  the  sliced  cucumbers.  Yes,  we'll 
come.  We'll  be  there  to  a  minute.  We'll  "dine 
in  a  plain  way."  "Better  is  a  dinner  of  herbs 
where  love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox  and  hatred  there 
with." 

"  Lastly,  as  to  who  and  where  I  am,  the  motion  is  not  now  in 
order.  Perhaps  I  am  a  country  clergyman,  recreating  in  a 
country  paper.  (I  shall  preach  to  you  :  aye,  sir,  I  shall  lay  on 
and  spare  not.)  Perhaps  I  am  a  country  farmer,  trying  to  get 
his  wife  to  read  the  news.  Perhaps  a  retired  valetudinarian, 
amusing  himself  with  a  city  Editor." 

No  matter,  our  dear  sir,  your  "  spring  chickens" 
shall  be  your  warrant  of  respectability,  and  your 
peas  the  endorsement  of  your  character.  If  you  are 
a  clergyman,  you  may  preach  to  us.  You  may 
"lay  on  and  spare  not."  We're  remarkably  pa 
tient.  We'll  listen  with  commendable  meekness, 
taking  our  revenge  on  the  spring  chickens.  We 
respect  the  clergy.  If  you're  a  farmer,  it's  just  as 
well.  Our  father  was  a  farmer,  our  kindred  are  all 
farmers.  It's  a  respectable  calling ;  those  who  be 
long  to  it  are  coming  to  be  the  aristocracy  of  the 
land ;  besides,  they  raise  such  fine  spring  chickens. 


26  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

We  don't,  by  any  manner  of  means,  object  to  farm 
ers.  If  you're  a  retired  valetudinarian,  it's  all  the 
better.  Your  lack  of  digestion  will  augment  our 
share  of  the  chickens.  Amuse  yourself  with  us  to 
your  heart's  content.  "We're  to  be  amused  with,  if 
the  chickens  are  properly  broiled  and  the  trimmings 
all  right.  Yes,  yes!  amuse  yourself  with  us. 
We'll  take  care  of  ourself  and  the  chickens. 

"  In  any  case,  for  the  present,  my  special  invitation  is,  (and 
my  wife  joins  me  heartily,)  DON'T  COME  TO  DINNER  !" 

We  decline  the  "special  invitation,"  promptly 
and  at  once.  Our  convenience  will  not  suffer  us  to 
accept.  We  regret,  on  account  of  our  correspond 
ent  and  his  excellent  wife,  that  we  cannot,  but  cir 
cumstances  must  co*ntrol  our  action  in  the  matter. 
We  are,  of  course,  grateful  for  this  "  special  invita 
tion,"  and  we  hope  they  will  pardon  us  for  declin 
ing  it. 


III. 


COUNTRY    LUXURIES. 

WE  extend  to  you,  sir,  the  right  hand  of  invita 
tion.  But  as  only  two  can  shake  hands  at  once, 
my  wife,  who  is  all  in  white  this  morning,  makes 
you  a  courtesy,  and  sends  you  her  regards.  If  you 
could  see  her,  sir,  as  she  stands  making  you  this 
modest  obeisance,  you  would  come,  as  with  wings. 
You  would  be  charmed  through  the  air,  as  was  Lo- 
retto's  chapel,  "  Tell  him  also,"  she  says,  "  not  to 
wait  for  the  spring  chickens,  but  to  come  now ;"  and 
so  say  I,  her  excellent  husband,  as  she  calls  me; 
and  I  will  add,  that  were  we  two  individuals,  or 
even  two  very  diverse  individuals,  instead  of  that 
consolidated  unit  which  we  are  (though  called  from 
the  paucity  of  language,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Margin),  I 
should  still  say  come.  I  should  mount  the  platform, 
and  exclaim  as  the  speech-maker  did,  in  those  three 
immortal  words,  at  the  laying  of  a  corner-stone,  "  It 
will  do!"  Come. 

"We  have,  sir,  lamb  chops,  new  potatoes,  the 
round  squash,  peas  if  possible,  and  that  delicate 
vegetable,  powerful  in  its  way,  but  still  delicate,  the 
young  onion.  How  other  people's  onions  may  rel- 


28  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

ish  this  year  I  know  not,  but  ours  have  arrived 
just  now  at  a  youthful  pungency  that  is  very  touch 
ing.  Boiled  to  a  creamy  tenderness,  or  cut  up  thin 
with  vinegar,  from  the  pure  white  globule  (about 
the  size,  when  cut  asunder,  of  an  English  sovereign), 
they  are  alike  admirable  and  perfect  in  their  way. 
I  use  the  word  perfect,  thoughtfully,  for  you  can  add 
nothing  to  the  young  onion  ;  or  if  you  do,  as  in  the 
more  advanced  onion,  you  have  too  much — an  ex 
cess;  a  wild  and  giddy  nostril- dilating  power ; 
which,  as  I  have  just  said,  is  too  much.  Thanks, 
therefore,  that  things  must  grow,  and  not  spring  up 
into  rankness  in  a  single  night.  Why,  sir,  a  young 
lady  and  her  sister  in  the  great  city  have  just  writ 
ten  to  us  that  they  are  coming  up  this  summer  (a  jour 
ney  of  some  hundreds  of  miles),  expressly  to  have  a 
good  time  with  that  delicate  plant.  I  immediately 
replied  with  my  very  best  married  man's  regards, 
and  conceiving  it  proper  to  make  a  few  remarks, 
added  the  following:  "I  thank  heaven  that  there 
are  some  people  left  in  these  latter  days,  who  are 
willing  and  ready  to  eat  onions.  It  is  a  good  sign. 
It  augurs  well  for  the  country.  It  will  give 
strength  and  tone  to  the  people — the  onion — when 
all  other  things  may  fail." 

When  will  you  come?  It's  a  good  time  now, 
our  hay  being  well  housed,  and  nothing  remaining 
of  an  urgent  character. 

My  father  remarked  the  other  day,  that  with  one 
exception  he  had  not  succeeded  in  getting  in  his 


WHAT  A   BEAUTIFUL   SHOWER!    29 

grass  without  rain,  in  fifteen  years.  He  usually  be 
gins  on  Monday,  so  as  not  to  have  the  eye-sore  of  hay 
in  the  meadow  on  Sunday.  Accordingly,  on  Monday 
last,  my  father  sent  the  men  into  the  meadow, 
although  the  clouds  were  ready,  at  the  very  mo 
ment,  to  drop  with  fatness.  He  merely  remarked 
that  it  would  have  to  be  rained  on,  and  the  sooner 
the  better.  Before  noon  the  grass  was  down,  and 
so  was  the  rain.  A  fine  shower  began  about  that 
time,  and  continued  at  intervals  all  day.  My  aunt, 
who  had  not  been  watchful  of  the  grass-cutting, 
walked  into  my  father's  room,  and  taking  a  pinch 
of  snuff,  remarked  in  her  pleasant  and  thankful 
way,  "  What  a  beautiful  shower  !  how  good  it  will 
be  for  the  garden!"  "Yes,"  said  my  father,  very 
briefly,  "  and  for  my  grass,  too." 

The  little  excitement  being  over,  and  the  grass 
made  into  hay  and  under  cover,  we  are  now  at  lei 
sure  again.  It  remains,  therefore,  only  to  point  you 
the  way.  But  I  hope,  sir,  you  will  not  look  for  a 
vulgar  and  exact  chart  of  the  route;  as,  say, 
"Bungtown  train  10:20,  stop  at  Bung,  inquire  for 
Bing,  and  find  the  same  just  round  the  corner." 
Horrid  !  How  excessively  annoying  to  be  booked 
in  that  way  I  Think,  sir,  of  the  nervous  anxiety  as 
to  reaching  station  at  the  precise  10 :  20 ;  then  of  the 
great  trepidation  as  to  where  Bung  is,  the  intense 
scrutiny  of  your  watch  and  tune-table,  or,  in  your 
final  despair,  the  hurried  exclamations  to  the  flying 


30  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

conductor,  "  Is  this  Bung  ?  Have  we  got  to  Bung, 
yet." 

I  never  do  so.  When  I  travel  (and  the  mood  may 
spring  upon  me  at  any  moment),  I  kiss  my  wife 
good-lye  between  the  eyes,  and  walk  directly  to  the 
station ;  she,  perhaps,  trotting  by  my  side,  as  I  go 
off  with  easy  strides,  hoping,  possibly,  for  more 
good-lyes  at  convenient  corners.  Well,  sir,  at  the 
station  I  take  the  cars.  That's  all.  I  never  ask  the 
conductor  where  he  is  going,  or  when  he  expects  to 
get  there.  I  take  it  he  understands  his  business. 
We  are  going, — that  is  the  great  point:  we  are 
travelling.  When  it  comes  night,  <5r  whenever  I 
get  tired,  I  motion  to  the  conductor,  in  an  easy  way, 
to  let  me  out ;  and  if  there  is  no  coach  handy  in 
that  part  of  the  country,  perhaps  I  may  walk  ;  but 
then  I  never  programme  to  do  so  and  so.  I  pro 
gramme  to  do  as  I  please,  and  as  events  shall  deter 
mine. 

I  would  say,  therefore,  Mr.  Editor,  in  a  general 
way,  as  to  coming  to  dinner,  take  the  cars.  Or,  to 
be  entirely  explicit,  take  the  cars  for  the  country. 
After  riding  as  far  as  you  think  proper,  I  should  say 
stop,  by  all  means ;  and  after  taking  bearings  a  little, 
look  about  for  Small  Bob.  If  you  find  Small  Bob,  you 
are  in  our  neighborhood.  Don't  overlook  that  indi 
vidual,  or  mark  too  harshly  the  width  of  his  hat-brim. 
Small  Bob,  seeing  a  man  of  your  comprehensive  ap 
pearance,  will  address  you  as  follows : — "  Is  this" — 


TELL   HIM   TO   COME.  31 

removing  his  hat-brim — "  Is  this  the  great  city  Edi 
tor,  come  to  dine  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Margin  ?" 

Of  course,  I  need  not  indicate  further.  Only  don't 
be  alarmed  at  the  dogs,  as  you  come  up  the 
yard.  If  Bob  is  with  you,  you  are  safe. 

P.  S. — Don't  come  to-day.  We  are  in  a  revolu 
tion — temporary,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  In  fact,  I  sus 
pect  it's  all  to  be  for  your  benefit.  But  the  fact  is 
all  the  same, — we  are  housebreaking.  Half  a  dozen 
strong  women  are  about  upsetting  things,  and  busy 
in  various  burglarious  operations.  We  are  to  dine 
on  the  piazza,  and  sleep  as  the  strong  women  may 
provide.  Perceiving  that  all  things  would  soon  be, 
as  you  may  say,  in  a  state  of  probation,  I  saved  my 
portfolio  early  from  the  ruins,  and  have  stolen 
away  to  a  spare  corner  up  stairs,  to  stop  the  press 
with  this  postscript. 

You  would  smile,  sir,  to  see  my  young  wife  order 
her  forces :  now  with  a  low  tone  of  suggestion,  or  a 
hurried  word  of  caution,  and  again  with  a  cut-short 
oh!  or  an  unstoppable  scream,  as  some  fabric 
is  threatened  with  destruction :  and  the  next  mo 
ment  turning  to  me  with  a  woman's  composure,  all 
calmness  and  greatness,  saying — "  Tell  him  to  come. 
We  will  be  ready." 

My  father  regards  the  event  from  a  different 
point  of  view,  rolling  his  thumbs,  as  he  sits  in  his 
great  chair,  and  looking  sharply  down  the  long  vis 
tas  of  piled-up  confusion,  or  chaos,  as  he  calls  it. 

P.  S.  No.2. — We  have  dined  as  arranged,  on  the 


32  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

piazza,  under  the  roof  shade  and  the  shade  of  the 
pines,  and  it  was,  as  the  little  girls  say,  le-u-tiful  I 
almost  wished  that  we  had  sent  our  dispatch  for  to 
day.  We  had  the  chops,  the  new  potatoes,  the 
young  onions,  and  (forgotten  before,  but  always 
immortal;  I  eat  it  three  tunes  a  day)  the  black 
raspberry ;  and  you,  my  aunt,  Souchong.  We  dis. 
cussed  junkctt  also,  called  in  the  vulgar,  "slip  and 
go  down;"  and  after  dinner,  I  mounted  the  door-sill 
and  made  a  speech,  quite  surprising  myself  with 
the  youthful  vigor  of  my  remarks. 

During  the  speech,  I  put  the  question,  sir,  as  to 
whether  the  great  Editor  shall  now  be  invited  to 
come  to  dinner  to-morrow,  at  say  1^  o'clock,  and 
the  result  was  a  unanimous  aye. 

This  matter  is,  therefore,  as  the  French  say,  fini. 

Yours,  . 


"  We  shall  have  lamb-chops,  new  potatoes,  the  round  squash, 
peas,  if  possible,  and  that  delicate  vegetable,  powerful  in  its 
way,  but  still  delicate,  the  young  onion." 

Say  no  more,  our  dear  sir,  we  accept  the  invita 
tion.  We  won't  wait  for  the  spring  chickens,  or,  if 
it's  all  the  same  to  you,  we'll  reserve  them  for  a  fu 
ture  occasion.  Lamb  chops,  young  potatoes,  the 
round  squash  and  young  onions,  will  do  for  the 
present.  Mark,  we  say,  for  the  present.  We  post 
pone,  only  postpone  the  era  of  spring  chickens. 


YOUNG   0  N.I  ON  s.  33 

Talking  of  onions  reminds  us  of  the  times  of  old, 
when  youth  sharpened  the  appetite,  and  exercise 
gave  a  zest  to  plain  fare.  How  often  have  we  taken 
a  piece  of  bread  spread  with  butter  in  one  hand, 
and  a  spoonful  of  salt  in  the  other,  and  gone  out 
into  the  garden  to  eat  bread  and  butter,  with  onions 
fresh  from  the  ground.  We  have  done  this  many 
a  time  when  we  were  young,  and  the  memory  of  it 
comes  back  like  the  shadow  of  a  pleasant  dream. 
Onions,  young  onions  in  particular,  is  our  weak 
ness.  They  are  healthy,  as  well  as  delicious  and 
savory  vegetables.  We  like  lamb-chops  ;  we  like 
young  potatoes,  we  adore  the  round  squash,  but 
young  onions  is  our  weakness.  True,  they  add  no 
sweetness  to  the  breath,  but  then  let  others  eat  them 
too,  and  there  will  be  no  trouble  on  that  score. 

"  Why,  sir,  a  young  lady  and  her  sister  in  the  great  city  have 
just  written  to  us  that  they  aro  coming  up  this  summer  (a  jour 
ney  of  some  hundreds  of  miles)  expressly  to  have  a  good  time 
with  that  delicate  plant." 

Strong-minded  women,  those  who  are  not  to  be 
tyrannized  out  of  their  "  young  onions"  by  the  poten 
tates  of  fashion.  Sensible  girls,  that  go  into  the 
country  to  get  free  for  a  time  of  the  bad  atmosphere 
and  worse  conventional  proprieties  of  a  city  life. 
Will  they  corne  during  the  season  of  young  onions, 
or  will  they  wait  for  the  spring  chickens?  Let 
us  hear  when  they  come,  and  we  shall  not  take 
the  least  possible  offence  at  being  invited  about  the 


34  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

same  time.  We'll  encourage  by  our  example  the 
young  lady  and  her  sister  in  having  a  good  time 
with  the  onions. 

"  My  wife,  who  is  all  in  white  this  morning,  makes  you  a 
courtesy,  and  sends  you  her  regards." 

We  like  white.  It  is  the  true  color  for  a  pure- 
hearted  woman.  It  is  the  color  of  the  robes  that 
angels  wear.  It  belongs  to  the  spotless  beings 
above,  to  the  cherubims  that  circle  around  the  great 
white  throne.  Let  her  always  wear  white  of  a 
morning.  "We  accept  her  regards — we  shall  cherish 
them  as  sacred  things — we  would 'not  forfeit  them 
for  worlds. 

"  If  you  could  see  her  as  she  stands,  making  you  this  modest 
obeisance,  you  would  come  as  with  wings.  You  would  be 
charmed  through  the  air  as  was  Loretto's  Chapel." 

We  do  see  her  in  our  mind's  eye,  not  as  "  mak 
ing"  us  "a  modest  obeisance,"  but  as  a  calm  and 
dignified  woman,  conscious  of  her  own  worth,  her 
value,  her  purity.  Her  heart  has  not  been  chilled 
by  contact  with  the  cold  world,  nor  her  aspirations 
blighted  by  disappointment.  On  her  cheek  is  the 
rose  of  life's  summer,  the  flush  of  health  and  high 
hopes.  May  the  rose  bloom  there  for  many  a  year 
— may  the  flush  continue  till  life's  close,  and  may 
that  be  far  off  in  the  future ;  may  children  and 
grand-children  be  around  her  then,  and  may  the 
tear  of  affection,  as  it  falls  upon  her  cold  cheek,  be 


•     N  E  w  -  M  o  w  N   II A  Y  .  35 

the  last  sensation  that  shall  remind  her  of  earth's 
cares. 

But  we  can't  come  "  as  with  wings" — we  are  too 
substantial,  too  earthly,  if  you  please,  for  that.  We 
will  come  in  the  cars,  and  speak  to  the  engineer  to 
let  on  the  steam ;  but  fourteen  stone  weight  can't  do 
much  with  wings.  Nor  can  we  go  through  the  air 
like  Loretto's  Chapel.  "We  have  a  natural  tendency  to 
sink,  a  downward  proclivity  as  it  were,  when  we  step 
off  from  some  high  place  upon  nothing.  Loretto's 
Chapel  was  transferred  through  a  miraculous  agency, 
but  the  age  of  miracles  is  past,  and  unless  we  can 
harness  the  power  that  moves  tables,  and  makes 
chairs,  and  stools,  and  stands  dance  a  jig  together, 
into  the  service,  we  must  perforce  be  content  to  go 
on  land,  and  under  the  impulse  of  steam. 

"  When  will  you  come  ?  It's  a  good  time  now,  our  hay  be 
ing  well  housed,  and  nothing  remaining  of  an  urgent  character. 
My  father  remarked  the  other  day,  that  with  one  exception,  he 
had  not  succeeded  in  getting  in  his  grass  without  rain  in  fifteen 
years." 

You  are  quite  right,  our  very  dear  sir.  The  best 
time  to  accept  an  invitation  to  a  good  dinner  is 
always  now.  We  are  sorry  the  grass  has  been 
mowed.  We  want  to  swing  a  scythe  again.  We 
have  done  so  once  this  summer.  We  want  to  rake 
and  pitch ;  we  have  done  that  too.  It  was  away 
out  in  old  Steuben.  We  were  passing  a  meadow 
where  six  men  were  mowing,  marching  forward  like 


36  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

a  platoon  of  grenadiers  keeping  step  and  stroke 
together,  each  swing  of  the  scythe  cutting  down 
grass  enough  to  fodder  an  ox.  We  climbed  over 
the  fence,  and  throwing  our  coat  upon  a  swath,  took 
down  a  scythe  that  hung  on  the  limb  of  a  thorn 
bush ;  we  felt  the  edge,  and  finding  it  keen,  struck 
in  boldly  with  the  mowers.  We  understood  this 
business  once,  and  so  long  as  our  wind  held  out, 
kept  up.  But  editing  a  newspaper  is  not  calculated 
to  make  one  enduring  in  the  hot  sun  of  July,  and 
after  mowing  a  bout,  we  surrendered.  Raking  was 
easier  work,  and  we  took  an  hour's  turn  at  that. 
Then  we  pitched  on  a  load  and  pitched  it  off,  into 
the  great  bay  in  the  barn.  By  this  time  we  had 
taken  a  sweat  that  a  steam  doctor  might  envy,  and 
we  passed  on  our  way.  Do  you  remember  when  a 
boy  at  work  in  the  hay  field,  how  you  watched  the 
heavens,  when  the  signs  of  rain  were  in  the  air? 
Do  you  remember  how  merrily  the  tree-frog  piped 
along  the  fences ;  how  gently  the  wind  stirred 
among  the  trees ;  how  fan-like  it  lifted  the  leaves 
upon  the  basswoods  along  the  fences,  turning  the 
under  side  to  the  sun,  and  making  the  tree-top  shine 
all  over  like  silver  ?  Do  you  remember  how,  when 
the  haze  gathered  in  the  air.  a  great  circle  surround 
ed  the  sun,  and  how  he  became  less  and  less  bright, 
until  he  disappeared  in  the  sky  ? 

And  then,  do  you  remember  when  the  small  drops 
of  a  settled  rain  came  falling  gently  around  you, 
how  you  shouldered  your  rake,  and  marched  to  the 


A  K  i  s  s   BETWEEN   THE  EYES.     37 

barn,  and  then  how  you  clambered  on  to  the  hay 
mow,  and  listening  to  the  soothing  sound  of  the  rain 
upon  the  roof,  you  sunk  away  into  the  sweetest 
possible  sleep  ? 

Do  you  remember  how  you  watched  the  clouds 
when  a  shower  was  coming  up  from  the  south-west  ? 
Did  you  note  how  the  great  black  clouds  came  lift 
ing  their  monster-shaped  heads  above  the  horizon, 
followed  by  others  still  more  ogre-looking,  until  the 
van  of  the  storm  stretched, in  a  long  dark  line 
across  the  sky  ?  Did  you  note  the  flashing  of  the 
lightning,  and  did  you  catch  the  first  deep  growl 
of  the  thunder  in  the  distance  ?  Did  you  hear  the 
sound  of  the  wind  and  the  pouring  rain,  while  the 
storm  was  yet  at  a  distance^  and  did  you  look  calmly 
from  your  bed  of  loose  hay  on  the  barn  floor,  upon 
the  rushing  waters,  while  the  clouds  were  emptying 
their  floods  around  you?  We  remember  these 
things,  and  we  have  never  lost  our  respect  for  a 
settled  rain,  or  a  thunder  shower  in  haying  time. 

"  I  kiss  my  wife  good-bye,  between  the  eyes,  and  walk  directly 
to  the  station." 

"Without  intending  to  be  personal,  you  must  per 
mit  us  to  say  you  are  wrong,  and  the  more  we 
reflect  upon  the  subject,  the  more  convinced  are  we 
that  you  are  wrong.  Not  in  kissing  your  wife. 
One  may  kiss  one's  wife  without  blame.  We  like 
the  practice — we  do  so  ourself,  occasionally.  It 
Berves  to  keep  the  affections  warm  and  the  heart 


38  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

soft.  Nor  do  we  object  to  your  walking  directly 
to  the  cars,  after  kissing  your  wife  good-bye.  That 
may  be  done  with  propriety  and  safety.  But  what 
we  protest  against,  is  the  kissing  your  wife  good 
bye  "between  the  eyes"  The  practice  is  a  bad  one. 
Lips  were  made  to  be  kissed  after  their  owner  has 
become  a  wife.  The  cheek  of  a  maiden  may  be 
touched  by  the  lips  of  a  lover,  but  the  lips  of  the 
.wife  should  be  the  recipients  of  a  husband's  kiss. 
This  is  the  true  principle  and  philosophy  of  the 
matter,  and  we  protest  against  any  departure  from 
the  ancient  and  orthodox  usage. 

"  I  would  say,  therefore,  Mr.  Editor,  in  a  general  way,  as  to 
coming  to  dinner,  take  the  cars,  or,  to  be  entirely  explicit,  take 
the  cars  for  the  country.  After  riding  as  far  as  you  think 
proper,  I  should  say  stop,  by  all  means,  and  after  taking  bear 
ings  a  little,  look  about  for  Small  Bob." 

We  begin  really  to  despair  of  this  dinner.  We 
have  made  numberless  concessions.  We  have  sur 
rendered  woodcock  and  snipe,  wild-duck  and  veni 
son,  and  settled  down  on  spring  chickens.  We 
subsequently  conceded  the  chickens  and  took  to 
lamb-chops,  young  potatoes,  round  squashes  and 
young  onions,  and  now  we  are  in  danger  of  losing 
even  them.  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  about  taking 
the  "  cars  for  the  country."  The  country  is  a  large 
place.  It  lays  all  around  Albany,  and  stretches  a 
great  way  back.  If  we  go  north,  we  traverse 
Vermont.  The  cars  go  thundering  through  the 


CLIMBING   A   MOUNTAIN.         39 

gorges  of  the  Green  Mountains.  We  went  that  way 
last  summer.  We  stopped  at  a  pleasant  village 
squatted  down  in  a  beautiful  valley,  through  which 
flowed  a  cold  pure  stream,  to  fish  for  the  speckled 
trout.  But  hundreds  had  preceded  us,  and  the 
trout  were  all  destroyed.  We  were  told  of  a  little 
lake  that  few  had  had  the  courage  to  visit,  laying 
just  over  the  ridge  of  mountains,  where  the  trout 
were  abundant.  We  started  for  that  lake.  Our 
course  lay  over  Mount  Tabor,  one  of  the  highest 
ridges  of  the  Green  Mountains.  Blazed  trees  along 
a  blind  foot-path  pointed  out  the  way.  We  went 
clambering  up  precipices  that  seemed  to  have  no 
summits,  sweating  and  sweltering  in  a  July  sun. 
When  we  stopped  to  rest,  the  gigantic  hemlocks 
that  grew  out  from  the  rugged  side  of  the  mountain 
away  down  below  us,  going  straight  up  towards 
the  sky,  presented  their  tall  tops  almost  within  our 
reach,  so  steep  was  the  acclivity.  We  toiled  on  for 
hours  and  hours  with  slow  and  painful  progress, 
till  we  entered  a  region  of  mist.  The  bushes  were 
dripping  with  moisture,  and  so  were  we,  still  we 
toiled  on  till  at  last  the  summit  was  gained,  and  we 
sat  down  to  rest  amid  the  clouds  on  the  bare  top  of 
Mount  Tabor.  It  was  cool  enough  away  up  there, 
and  we  waited  for  the  mist  to  pass  away.  It  did 
pass  at  length,  and  the  prospect  that  opened  upon 
our  vision  repaid  a  hundred-fold  the  toil  of  the 
ascent.  There  we  sat  thousands  of  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  sea.  Away  off  to  the  west  lay  Lake 


40  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

Champlain,  stretching  north  and  south  for  a  hun 
dred  miles.  We  saw  two  steamboats  ploughing  their 
way  through  the  waters,  while  away  beyond  were 
the  mountains  of  Essex,  their  bald  heads  piercing 
the  sky,  shining  in  the  sunlight  like  the  glistening 
helmet  of  some  giant  warrior  of  old.  Beneath  us 
were  beautiful  valleys,  winding  away  towards  the 
level  country  to  the  south,  with  broad  farms  and 
green  fields  spread  out, -dotted  with  farm-houses 
and  barns,  and  here  and  there  a  quiet  village  with 
church  steeples  going  up  from  among  the  clustered 
houses.  We  saw  the  long  line  of  a  railroad  stretch 
ing  away  towards  Kutlancl,  and  a  train  of  cars 
drawn  by  the  iron  horse  dashing  along  on  its  jour 
ney  towards  Rouse's  Point.  Towards  the  east  was 
a  dense  forest  standing  in  all  its  primeval  grandeur, 
clothed  in  everlasting  green,  stretching  away  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach,  with  here  and  there  a  mountain 
peak  towering  towards  the  sky.  We  sat  there  for 
an  hour  enjoying  the  cool  breeze,  and  drinking  in 
the  grandeur  of  the  landscape  beneath  us,  and  then 
passed  on  to  the  pond  where  the  trout  were  said  to 
abound.  We  reached  it  in  half  an  hour,  and  were 
repaid  for  our  labor  by  two  trout  and  a  mud  turtle. 
We  returned  at  night  weary  enough,  but  in  the 
morning  we  remembered  the  vision  from  Mount 
Tabor,  and  were  satisfied. 

If  we  go  east,  "  the  country"  reaches  all  the  way 
to  Boston,  the  metropolis  of  the  Bay  State.  If  we 
go  west,  it  reaches  to  Lake  Erie,  and  beyond  that, 


"SMALL    BOB."  41 

thousands  of  miles,  across  vast  prairies,  and  over 
the  Kocky  Mountains,  to  the  great  Pacific.  If  we 
go  south,  it  reaches  to  the  Empire  City.  Here  we 
are,  then,  afloat  without  a  compass,  wandering  in 
a  boundless  wilderness,  with  no  landmark  save 
"  Small  Bob."  And  who,  in  the  name  of  all  the 
saints,  is  "  Small  Bob"  ?  Answer  us  that.  Where 
are  we  to  find  him?  What  are  his  distinctive 
marks  ?  What  is  his  complexion ;  is  it  ebony  or 
topaz  ?  Are  we  to  wander  all  over  the  land,  like 
Japhet  in  search  of  his  father,  inquiring  after 
"Small  Bob,"  and  a  dinner  of  lamb -chops,  new 
potatoes,  round  squashes  and  young  onions  ? 

We  can't  do  it ;  and  we  see  the  vision  of  gastron 
omy  fading  from  our  view,  as  many  a  bright  one 
has  done  before.  We  give  it  up  in  despair.  Ah 
me! 


IY. 

EDITOR'S    LATITUDE    &   LONGITUDE. 

I  THOUGHT  of  you  this  morning,  my  kind  editor, 
almost  with  tears  in  my  eyes.  Crossing  the  high 
bridge  over  Koaring  Kiver,  I  came  upon  three  boys 
lying  flat  on  their  bellies,  their  heads  just  over  the 
edge  of  the  bridge,  shouting  to  a  boy  below,  who, 
with  rolled-up  trowsers,  was  seeking  wildly  for  a 
mud  turtle.  The  excitement  both  below  and  above 
was  extreme.  The  turtle,  in  looking  down,  was  in 
plain  sight,  floating  about  in  quite  shoal  water,  and 
evidently  having  a  good  time,  now  with  his  tail  up, 
going  down  among  the  crevices  of  the  rocky  bottom, 
and  then  with  raised  paws,  coming  slowly  up  and 
skimming  the  surface.  But  to  the  boy  below  all 
was  glimmer  and  confusion  ;  the  dazzle  of  the  sun 
and  the  ripple  on  the  surface  suggesting  to  him  un 
known  depths,  and  his  own  eagerness  to  accomplish 
the  feat  making  him  almost  frantic,  set  on,  as  he 
was,  by  the  cries  of  the  boys  above,  "  There  he  is 
— oh,  my  gracious !  Don't  you  see  him  ?  he  is  com 
ing  right  towards  you — oh  crackee!  Catch  him, 
Jim,  catch  him !"  All  this,  I  say  to  my  experienced 
eye,  knowing  how  perfectly  safe  that  turtle  was, 


FOURTEEN   STONE  WEIGHT.        43 

made  up  a  scene  of  distress  in  which  I  couldn't  help 
exclaiming,  "  Oh  that  the  editor  was  here  !"  For  I 
remembered  your  experience  in  turtling,  and  that 
large  men  are  always  magnanimous  and  generous 
to  boys.  I  counted,  also,  on  your  length  (not 
breadth)  of  beam;  for  I  take  it,  sir,  you  are  a  man 
of  symmetry.  Your  " fourteen  stone"  weight,  I 
do  hope  and  trust,  is  not  all  laid  out  horizontally. 
Your  downward  tendency  has  not  settled  you  into 
a  rhomboid.  You  have  height  as  well  as  depth ; 
longitude  as  well  as  latitude.  You  should  be,  sir, 
at  least  six  feet,  in  your  stockings:  for  the  sym 
metries  are  as  important  to  men  as  the  graces  to 
woman.  Mental,  moral,  and  physical — these  are  the 
symmetries ;  and  such  is  the  effort  of  nature  to  make 
them  always  harmonize,  that  having  one,  we  in 
variably  look  for  the  others.  If  a  man  lack  in  alti 
tude  (the  proportionate  height,  I  mean),  he  will  be 
short  in  something  else.  Inevitable,  sir,  inevitable. 
He  will  not  be  gifted  in  sunrises  and  large  views  ; 
though  he  may  be  good  in  trouting,  and  better  still 
at  c/m5-bing.  Some  of  the  most  patient  anglers  I 
know  are  those  who,  having  seated  themselves  com 
fortably  on  a  river  bank,  find  it  exceedingly  difficult 
to  get  up  again.  You,  sir,  should  be  six  feet  high, 
and  well  proportioned. 

But  why  is  it,  I  was  going  to  ask — why  is  it,  Mr. 
Editor,  that  boys  crave  mud-turtle  ?  Why  hanker 
after  the  ugly  ?  For  an  eel  or  a  bull-head — (I  do 
not  deny  a  certain  beauty  and  philosophical  har- 


44  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

mony  in  the  turtle — its  life  in  its  shell),  but  an  eel  or 
a  bull-head  is  a  greater  satisfaction  to  most  boys  than 
the  handsomest  trout  you  ever  saw.  There  are 
people,  also,  who  go  about  collecting  strange  bugs, 
beetles,  snakes,  spiders,  and  many -legged  monstros 
ities,  which  they  carefully  bottle  and  keep  near  them, 
as  a  kind  of  refreshment !  U — g — h ! 

And  now,  sir,  I  ask  you,  is  there  a  sort  of  Young 
Harry  in  this,  leading  on  to  the  Old  Harry  ?  For 
there  are  older  boys  just  as  intent,  just  as  eager,  just 
as  morbidly  hungry  for  moral  monstrosities,  bot 
tling  all  manner  of  vice  and  ugliness,  and  deformity, 
and  cherishing  them  as  something  very  delectable, 
something  really  new  under  the  sun,  and  the  only 
true  facts  and  realities,  as  though  hell  itself 
were  not  already  full  of  just  that  kind  of  mate 
rial! 

As  there  is  a  love  of  the  beautiful,  so  also  there 
is  a  love  of  the  ugly.  I  have  fought  hard  and  long 
against  this  conviction,  but  I  believe  it  is  true  as 
Iloly  Writ,  and  the  great  mischief  of  our  day  is  the 
practical  unbelief  in  regard  to  this  matter. 

A  love  of  the  ugly  for  its  own  sake — a  love  of 
vice  with  its  sequents,  and  because  of  them,  almost 
as  though  it  were  a  pleasure  to  be  damned.  There 
are  men  in  the  world  who  seem  to  be  haunted  with 
the  fear  that  they  will  see  or  hear  of  something 
pleasant,  something  beautiful,  or  good,  and  so  be 
charmed  by  some  hocus  pocus,  into  a  belief  in  the 
existence  of  such  things.  "  Oh  my  vipers,"  they 


A   BEAUTIFUL   MORNING.         45 

cry :  ll  Oh  my  bugs,  my  snakes,  my  excellent  big 
black  spiders  I" 

Nothing  is  more  painful  to  such  men  than  sym 
metry,  beauty,  proportion.  They  seek  always  for 
the  ugly,  and  they  find  it.  No  fear  as  to  that.  They 
are  sure  to  arrive  at  the  most  hellish  capacities,  and 
it  is  rare  that  such  men  die  without  proving  to  the 
world  the  height  and  depth  of  their  abilities  in  that 
line. 

The  morning  that  we  have  to-day,  under  these 
heavens,  is  exceedingly  beautiful.  It  would  seem 
that  on  such  a  morning,  everything  that  hath  breath 
would  be  saying — Hallelujah,  hallelujah,  amen,  hal 
lelujah  !  But  it  is  safe  to  say  that  the  Prince  of 
Darkness,  and  his  legions,  whether  here  or  else 
where,  have  had  no  voice  in  these  utterances. 
Their  partialities  are  all  "the  other  way,  the  other 
way;"  they  love  the  ugly.  I  have  no  liking  for 
the  freedom  with  which  some  people  talk  of  that 
Great  Creature,  that  "  archangel  ruined,"  who  is 
now  making  such  terrible  havoc  in  the  world, 
showing  his  hand  of  late  with  so  much  boldness 
and  success,  and  claiming  allegiance  upon  the  very 
score  of  his  supreme  hideousness.  I  am  not  dis 
posed  to  make  light  of  him,  but  I  trust  there  is  no 
harm  in  offering  it  as  my  long-settled  conviction, 
that  if  this  "  murderer  from  the  beginning"  had 
ever,  by  any  mistake,  made  a  pleasant  morning  like 
this,  he  would  have  hung  himself  before  breakfast. 
Yes,  sir,  he  would  have  hanged  himself  high,  un- 


46  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

less,  indeed,  he  might  have  gone  mad  in  the  first 
glance  at  its  beauty  and  glory. 

But  God  made  the  morning — thanks  to  His  Great 
and  Holy  name.  God  made  the  morning,  and  in 
this  is  the  hope  of  the  world. 

I  did  not  expect  to  be  so  grave,  Mr.  Editor,  for 
there  is  a  time  and  place  for  such  topics,  and  I  fear 
you  may  think  I  am  out  of  both.  Permit  me  one 
last  word  about  our  dinner.  I  have  been  thinking, 
sir,  that  if  you  start  out  alone,  you  may  be  charmed 
away  by  some  inviting  vista,  and  never  find  us. 
Your  passion  for  mountains  might  be  too  much  for 
you.  We  should  hear  of  you,  perhaps,  clambering, 
coat  off,  and  hat  in  hand,  up  some  neighboring 
height,  making  speeches  to  the  clouds  and  the  coun 
try  at  large ;  or  possibly — and  quite  possibly,  too — 
stopping  somewhere  for  a  sunrise.  I  am  coming 
after  you,  therefore,  myself. 

Yours,         . 


"  I  take  it,  sir,  you  arc  a  man  of  symmetry.  Your  '  fourteen 
stone  '  weight,  I  do  hope  and  trust,  is  not  all  laid  out  horizon 
tally.  Your  '  downward  tendency  '  has  not  settled  you  into  a 
rhomboid." 

Men's  notions  of  symmetrical  beauty  differ. 
Tastes,  on  that  subject,  take  a  wide  range.  Some 
admire  long  men,  reaching  away  up  like  a  liberty 
pole,  a  thing  to  hang  flags  on,  on  the  Fourth  of  July. 
Length  has  its  conveniences,  we  admit.  It's  a  good 


THE  STANDARD   OF  BEAUTY.     47 

thing  in  cherry  time.  One  can  pick  the  fruit  handi 
ly  from  the  remote  branches.  Others  prefer  hori 
zontal  dimension,  a  spreading  out  sideways.  It 
gives  an  appearance  of  substantiality,  of  solidity. 
We  never  quarrel  with  people's  tastes.  De  gustilus 
non  disputandum,  is  our  motto.  We  insist  that  it 
is  a  wise  one.  If  the  standard  of  beauty  were  fixed 
at  six  feet  and  upwards,  what  would  become  of  the 
short  men  and  women  ?  For  ourself,  we  are  not  a 
"rhomboid."  We  have  more  than  four  sides.  We 
have  been  accused  of  having  had  at  least  twice  that 
number  in  politics  alone — with  what  justice  "history 
must  determine."  All  we  say  on  the  subject  is,  we 
never  had  but  one  political  side — at  a  time.  We 
admit  that  politics  has  "  made  us  acquainted  with 
strange  bed-fellows."  We  entered  upon  political 
life  with  certain  fixed  principles,  and  as  we  affirm, 
have  stood  fast  by  them.  Parties  fluctuate,  or 
rather  circulate,  revolve,  go  round  and  round. 
We  being  fixed,  it  is  not  singular  that  we  should 
have  come  in  conjunction  with  all  parties,  in  their 
revolutions.  True,  the  world  •  differs  with  us  on 
this  subject,  and  says  that  ive  have  been  circulating 
— visiting  different  party  orbits  in  our  course.  That 
we  deny,  and  surely  we  ought  to  know  the  real 
truth  of  the  matter. 

"  You  should  be,  sir,  at  least  six  feet  in  your  stockings." 

True,  we  should  be,  but  we  are  not  by  a  long 
shot.     Doubtless  it  was  originally  intended  other- 


48  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

wise.  We  were  meant  for  a  six-footer,  but  we  got 
spoiled  in  some  way  in  the  making  up.  It  was  a 
great  misfortune,  we  admit,  but  by  no  system  of 
ethics  can  it  be  charged  against  us  as  a  fault.  What 
a  man  does,  he  should  be  held  accountable  for.  He 
should  be  held  answerable  for  what  he  is,  if  he 
made  himself  such  by  his  follies  or  his  vices.  The 
Deity  made  men  right.  He  gave  them  the  power 
of  choice  in  their  course  of  life.  He  placed  good 
and  evil  before  them,  and  left  them  free  to  choose. 
The  consequences  of  their  choice  were  not  hidden 
from  them.  All  around  the  good  were  scattered 
peace  and  happiness,  joy  and  gladness  in  this  world, 
and  the  promise  of  happiness  in  the  world  to  come. 
The  evil  was  beset  with  sorrow.  Vice  carried  its 
chains,  to  be  fastened  upon  its  votaries.  A  troubled 
life,  a  barren  and  hopeless  hereafter,  were  the  re 
wards  it  promised.  Between  these  utter  divergents 
lay  the  destiny  of  men ;  and,  strange  infatuation, 
transcendent  folly,  the  evil  has  an  army  of  followers, 
in  comparison  with  which  the  good  can  reckon  only 
a  corporal's  guard. 

"  The  symmetries  are  as  important  to  men  as  the  graces  to 
women.  Mental,  moral,  and  physical — these  are  the  symmetries  ; 
and  such  is  the  effort  of  nature  to  make  them  always  harmonize, 
that  having  the  one,  we  invariably  look  for  the  others." 

Doubtless  this  is  all  true  in  theory,  but  not  so 
clearly  sustained  by  facts.  Let  us  look  around  us 
and  see  what  are  the  demonstrations.  CHALMERS 


THE   MILK   IN   T  n E  C  o  c  o  A  N  u T .    49 

was  a  man  of  small  stature,  and  lean  proportions, 
bat  what  divine  equalled  him  in  mental  power,  or 
excelled  him  in  moral  qualities  ?  Who  has  not  read 
with  rapture  his  matchless  sermons,  replete  with 
thrilling  eloquence  *  and  grandeur  of  rhetoric,  his 
"thoughts  that  burn,"  his  profound  and  original 
conceptions?  One  can  almost  imagine  himself  soar 
ing  amid  the  stars,  far  away  in  the  blue  vault  of 
heaven,  traversing  the  milky  way,  and  diving  be 
tween  the  rings  of  Saturn,  while  reading  his  astro 
nomical  discourses.  Newton  was  a  man  of  medium 
stature,  and  yet  in  intellect  almost  a  god.  Instances 
may  be  multiplied  of  great  men  with  bodies  by  no 
means  proportionate  to  the  giant  dimensions  of  their 
intellectual  stature.  The  true  theory  probably  is, 
that  there  is  a  secret  balance  between  the  intel 
lectual  and  physical,  which  depends  not  so  much 
upon  length  of  bones  and  size  of  muscle,  as  upon 
a  proper  connection  and  development  of  organ 
ization. 

"  If  a  man  lack  in  altitude  (the  proportionate  height,  I  mean) , 
he  will  be  short  in  something  else.  Inevitable,  sir,  inevitable." 

Excellent.  This  accounts  for  the  milk  in  the 
cocoanut.  We  are  a  living  demonstration  of  the 
truth  of  the  theory.  Lacking  in  the  requisite  alti 
tude,  we,  of  necessity,  must  be  short  somewhere. 
We  have  been  so  all  our  life.  We  have  been  short 
in  the  pocket,  short  in  bank  deposits,  short  in 
ability  to  meet  promptly  incoming  bills.  In  short, 


50  C  O  U  N  T  11  Y     MARGINS. 

we  have  been  troubled  all  our  life  with  the  shorts, 
and  here  is  the  reason  of  the  thing — we  lack  in 
length  of  body.  Well,  it's  a  pleasant  thing  when 
one  enters  upon  a  fight,  to  understand  the  casus 
belli,  to  understand  the  origin,  the  why  and  the 
wherefore  of  a  thing.  We  have  a  friend  who  is 
"  six  feet  in  his  stockings,"  and  well  proportioned, 
and  he  never  had  a  bill  protested  in  his  life.  We 
didn't  understand  how  it  could  be,  till  we  measured 
his  height,  got  him  to  stand  up  by  the  ceiling,  stuck 
a  knife  j  ust  even  with  his  crown,  and  then  got  on  to 
a  stool  and  measured.  It  was  six  feet  and  an  inch  to 
the  floor.  Our  friend  always  has  his  "  pockets  full 
of  rocks,"  and  it  is  all  owing  to  his  altitude. 

"  Some  of  the  most  patient  anglers  I  know,  are  those  who  liav- 
ing  seated  themselves  comfortably  on  a  river  bank,  find  it  ex 
ceedingly  difficult  to  get  up  again." 

This  squares  with  our  own  observation.  We  have 
in  our  mind's  eye  a  notable  example,  what  the 
lawyers  would  call  a  case  in  point.  We  returned 
last  week  from  an  angling  expedition  to  the  moun 
tains  of  Pennsylvania,  away  up  among  the  sources  of 
rivers.  We  saw  the  spring  from  which  the  Genesee 
takes  its  rise.  It  comes  out  of  the  ground  in  a 
stream  large  enough  to  propel  a  mill  wheel,  and 
starts  at  once  on  its  returnless  voyage  to  the  majes 
tic  St.  Lawrence  and  the  ocean.  Beyond  was  a 
high  ridge  over  which  we  passed,  and  then  stepped 
across  the  remotest  branch  of  the  Alleghany  that 


SOURCES   OF   GREAT  RIVERS.      51 

travels  west  to  the  Ohio,  and  then  to  the  great  Fa 
ther  of  Waters,  and  so  along  down  by  New  Orleans 
to  the  Mexican  Gulf.  Beyond  again  was  a  ridge 
higher  still  over  which  our  road  lay,  and  there  we 
came  to  the  head  waters  of  the  Sinnemahoning, 
that  travels  through  great  forests  towards  the  Sus- 
quehanna,  and  finds  its  final  passage  to  the  ocean 
through  the  Chesapeake  Bay.  By  the  way,  will  any 
body  tell  us  how  these  great  springs,  that  go  to 
make-  up  these  rivers,  get  up  here  on  these  high 
mountains?  We  have  read  about  capillary  attrac 
tion,  and  the  pressure  from  above  that  forces  them 
through,  and  finally  out  of  the  ground,  to  flow  away 
to  the  ocean  obedient  to  the  laws  of  gravity.  We 
don't  want  to  hear  or  read  any  more  of  that,  for  we 
don't  believe  it.  There  is  not  rain  enough  falling 
on  these  mountain  ranges  to  supply  evaporation, 
and  these  springs  that  ^gush  in  such  volume  from 
the  ground,  that  come  welling  up  in  a  flood  day  and 
night,  week, days  and  Sundays,  always.  But  we 
got  to  the  Sinnemahoning,  in  the  woods,  in  the 
middle  of  a  vast  forest  with  only  little  clearings  at 
long  intervals  along  the  valley  through  which  it 
flows.  Here  we  stopped  for  a  week  to  fish  for  the 
speckled  trout,  and  have  a  pleasant  season  of  com 
munion  with  nature  in  her  old-fashioned  dress.  We 
do  not  intend  to  enter  upon  description  of  the 
scenery  here,  we  reserve  it  for  another  occasion. 
We  had  with  us  two  friends — the  one  a  clergyman, 
to  whom  we  refer  as  an  example  of  patience  in 


52  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

angling.  He  is  one  of  a  thousand,  a  Christian  man, 
one  fit  to  be  trusted  with  the  care  of  souls ;  but  he 
is  neither  a  zealot  nor  a  bigot ;  of  a  cheerful,  but 
contemplative  spirit,  with  a  mind  profoundly  stored 
with  varied  reading,  he  can  appreciate  as  well  as 
tell  a  merry  anecdote,  and  perpetrate  as  well  as 
enjoy  a  jest.  lie  was  a  most  patient  angler.  lie 
would  sit  for  hours  under  the  shadow  of  some  great 
tree  on  the  bank  of  the  little  river,  by  the  side  of  a 
deep  hole,  watching  with  patient  assiduity  his  hook, 
as  it  floated  in  the  water.  If  the  fish  were  minded 
to  bite,  it  was  well ;  if  not,  it  was  just  as  well.  There 
was  the  bait  and  the  hook,  the  line  and  pole,  and 
he  was  ready  to  draw  them  out.  If  they  chose  to 
remain  under  the  logs  and  drift-wood,  regardless  of 
his  tempting  offers  of  a  grasshopper  or  a  worm,  it 
was  not  his  fault.  Where  you  left  the  dominie, 
there  you  would  him  find,  until  the  sun  came  round 
and  drove  him  to  another  deep,  still  place,  where 
was  a  bank  and  a  shade,  with  the  pleasant  song  of 
birds  about  him.  He  was  not  a  very  successful 
angler,  but  his  cheerful  countenance  spoke  of  the 
pleasant  memories,  the  bright  day-dreams,  the  cheer 
ful  thoughts  that  were  clustering  around  his  heart, 
as  he  sat  there  in  the  cool  shade,  angling  in  a  trout- 
less  eddy. 

But  he  is  not  a  "short"  man ;  he  is  "six  feet  in 
his  stockings,"  and  had  to  stoop  as  he  entered  the 
door  of  the  pleasant  little  dwelling  where  we  stopped. 
That  dwelling  is  in  a  little  clearing  of  some  twenty 


A  SENSIBLE   CONCLUSION.        53 

acres  surrounded  by  forest,  and  high  mountains, 
with  tall  peaks  running  up  towards  the  sky,  behind 
which  the  sun  hides  himself  for  hours  before  he 
finally  goes  down  to  his  lodging-place  for  the  night. 
We  fishermen  had  our  wives  along,  and  they  were 
so  merry  and  contented,  while  we  stayed,  that  we 
acquiesced  in  the  name  given  it  a  year  or  two  ago, 
and  called  it  the  "Saint's  Best." 

"  And  now,  sir,  I  ask  you,  is  there  not  a  Young  Harry  in  this, 
leading  on  to  the  Old  Harry  ?" 

Very  possibly,  although  the  generally-received 
opinion,  we  think,  is  that  the  elderly  gentleman 
spoken  of,  has  most  to  do  with  such  matters.  He 
is  said  to  be  exceedingly  busy  in  his  vocation,  and 
takes  quite  as  much  interest  in  the  young  as  in  the 
elders  of  the  human  family.  Indeed,  many  think 
that  his  policy  is  to  induct  mankind  into  evil  ways 
at  an  early  age,  so  that  as  they  advance  in  life,  they 
give  him  less  trouble  by  their  ability  to  sin  without 
calling  upon  him  for  aid  in  the  furnishing  of  temp 
tations. 

"  Permit  me  one  last  word  about  our  dinner.  I  have  been  think 
ing,  sir,  that  if  you  start  out  alone,  you  may  be  charmed  away 
by  some  inviting  vista,  and  never  find  us.  Your  passion  for 
mountains  might  be  too  much  for  you.  *  *  *  *  I  am  coming 
for  you,  therefore,  myself." 

A  most  sensible  conclusion  to  an  excellent  ser 
mon.  That's  what  we  call  a  practical  climax,  leav 
ing  a  pleasant  sensation  on  the  mind,  to  aid  in  the 


54  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

digestion  of  a  discourse.  "Well,  come  along.  We'll 
be  ready.  We're  not  particular  about  the  day  or 
the  hour,  only  let  it  be  a  week  day,  and  not  Friday. 
That's  a  bad  day — a  day  when  they  hang  people ; 
a  day  full  of  evil  omens.  All  the  bad  luck  we 
ever  had  was  on  Friday.  We  fell  into  the  Crooked 
Lake  on  a  Friday,  and  were  so  nearly  drowned  that 
we  never  knew,  save  from  hearsay,  how  we  got  out. 
We  were  upset  in  a  stage  coach,  and  had  our  nose 
knocked  to  one  side,  and  our  wrist  sprained  on  a 
Friday.  We  were  in  the  railroad  cars  when  a  col 
lision  took  place ;  we  were  fast  asleep  at  the  time, 
and  the  shock  pitched  us  headforemost  against  a 
lady  who  sat  fast  asleep  in  front  of  us,  and  whose 
husband  threatened,  in  his  ignorance  of  the  collision 
(for  he  had  been  asleep  too),  to  do  us  serious  bodily 
damage,  on  account  of  our  involuntary  rudeness — 
all  this  was  on  a  Friday  night.  Our  house  was 
burned  on  a  Friday  night,  and  two  as  noble  stag 
hounds  as  ever  followed  the  trail  of  a  deer,  perished 
in  the  flames.  They  were  shut  up  in  the  wood-shed 
adjoining,  and  were  suffocated  before  the  flames 
were  discovered.  We  never  enter  upon  any  new 
undertaking  on  a  Friday.  We  form  no  new  ac 
quaintances  on  that  day.  We  never  accept  an 
invitation  for  a  Friday.  We  did  that  thing  once 
along  ago,"  and  we  upset  a  capital  dish  of  roast 
venison,  covered  with  delicious  gravy,  in  our  lap. 
We  had  to  send  home  for  a  pair  of  pantaloons,  to 
don  in  the  place  of  our  white  ones,  spoiled  by  the 


.   DON'T  COME   ON   FRIDAY.          55 

misadventure.  "We  have  a  theory  on  the  subject  of 
diurnal  influences,  and  laughing  at  us  won't  induce 
its  abandonment.  We  point  to  the  facts,  which  to 
us,  at  least,  are  history,  as  evidence  of  its  truth. 
Don't  come  on  a  Friday ;  something  would  surely  go 
wrong,  to  mar  the  pleasure  of  a  new  acquaintance, 
and  spoil  a  good  dinner.  On  any  other  day,  we  say 
in  the  beautiful  langauge  of  the  poet — 

"  Walk  along,  John." 


V. 


A  FRIKND  FROM  THE  OLD  DOMINION. 

IF  you  do  not  hear  from  me  soon  again,  Mr.  Edi 
tor,  you  may  consider  that  I  am  taking  a  rest.  Per 
haps  (as  I  remarked  yesterday  to  my  tall  friend, 
L.  P.,  of  the  F.  F.  V.),  perhaps  you  carry  too  many 
guns  for  me.  Perhaps  you  blow  away  my  posi 
tions,  and  symmetrical  arrangements,  too  easily. 
Certain  it  is,  that  pleasantly  as  we  have  chatted 
together  over  our  peas  and  young  onions,  you  have, 
of  late,  grown  upon  me  into  a  kind  of  overshadow 
ing  greatness.  Besides,  August  lias  come  in  upon 
us  with  great  force,  and  for  a  space  now,  I  must 
rest.  On  the  first  day  of  the  month,  and  among 
the  first  of  those  hours  which  I  include  in  the 
morning,  I  was  rounding  a  pleasant  dream  up  stairs, 
when  there  was  a  vigorous  knock  at  the  front  door. 
Springing  from  bed,  I  put  on  my  dressing-gown, 
and  with  unshod  feet  went  down  the  stairs  and 
opened  upon — the  first  event  of  the  day — my  Kev. 
friend  and  quondam  from  a  neighboring  State,  whom 
I  had  not  seen  for  many  years.  Our  mutual  bewil 
derment  in  gazing  upon  each  other,  was  almost  at 
the  point  of  awkwardness.  He,  so  clean  and  clerical, 


THE  KEVEKEND   FRIEND.         57 

so  firm  and  close-buttoned ;  and  I,  like  a  ragged 
cloud,  all  wild  and  loose.  He,  who,  ten  years  ago, 
had  been  spare-bodied  like  myself,  and  with  eyes 
full  of  that  intense  sensibility  with  which  some 
people  go  mourning  about  the  world,  was  now 
round  and  compact ;  and  I,  who  had  been  thin  and 
spare,  now  thinner  and  sparer  still.  His  face, 
which,  like  mine,  had  been  sharply  triangular,  now 
presented  a  projection  and  squareness  of  chin,  which 
implied,  that  let  the  world  roll  how  it  may,  he  was 
ready  for  it.  Eeady  for  to-day  and  for  to-morrow, 
and  for  next  week,  built  up,  expanded,  consoli 
dated. 

My  friend  seated  himself  comfortably  by  an  open 
window,  and  gravely  searched  about  me  for  some 
reminder  of  his  old  acquaintance ;  finding,  however, 
only  ruin  and  waste,  with  an  occasional  feeble  flash, 
like  sheet  lightning,  telling  of  storms  gone  by. 
And  I  couldn't  help  thinking  there  was  something 
exultant  in  his  gaze,  as  he  saw  all  this  change,  and 
that  hollow  other-world  look,  which  might  have 
checked  him,  one  would  say,  from  coolly  remark 
ing,  as  he  did,  that,  positively,  if  he  had  met  me  in 
the  street,  he  should  not  have  known  me. 

Perhaps  not;  probably  not.  But  accustomed  as 
I  am  to  hear  people  say — "  My  dear  Margin,  how 
well  you  are  looking,"  I  was  taken  a  little  aback. 
Leaving  him  the  freedom  of  the  parlor,  I  returned 
to  my  chamber,  exclaiming  to  the  world,  sotto  voce, 
"Don't,  my  dear  people,  oh,  don't  let  us  be  too 
3 


58  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

practical  in  a  world  like  this."  And  I  freely  con 
fess  to  you,  my  dear  Editor,  the  effort  of  getting 
ready  for  breakfast  that  morning  was  more  of  a 
labor  than  I  have  had  for  many  a  day.  I  didn't 
pretend  to  shave,  and  my  endeavors  at  getting  my 
hair  straight  were,  for  a  long  time,  as  Longfellow 
says,  "  All  in  vain,  all  in  vain."  My  young  wife, 
however,  during  this  time,  was  bracing  me  up,  this 
way  and  that,  and  trying  to  put  me  in  shape. 
"  Pray,"  said  she,  "  what  does  he  know  about  you  ? 
Why,  my  dear  husband,  you  are  younger  now  than 
you  have  been  for  years.  You  are !  Yes,  for  years. 
Please  don't  hurry ;  your  cravat  is  all  one  side ; 
yes,  for  years !  Why,  everybody  tells  you  you  are 
better — wait  a  moment;  your  coat;  yes,  better  a 
great  deal ;  and  you  know  you  are  /" 

Strengthened,  and  built  about  in  this  way,  I  came 
down  to  breakfast,  prepared  to  demolish  my  stout 
friend  instantly,  if  he  continued  his  vein  of  remark. 
But,  whether  owing  to  the  juvenile  look  which  Mrs. 
Margin  had  given  me,  or  to  a  deep  feeling  of  remorse 
on  his  part,  we  had  no  further  collisions.  My  friend 
stopped  only  for  an  hour,  barely  touching  upon  us, 
as  he  said,  on  his  way  home.  But  it  was  the  touch 
of  a  strong  mind  in  a  strong  body,  carrying  me  off 
as  with  a  whirlwind.  I  found  myself,  in  a  little 
while,  bowling  away  with  him  to  your  city,  and 
whirling  and  speeding  through  times  past,  times 
present,  and  the  great  time  to  come.  Swift  as  flew 
the  wheels  in  that  lightning  train,  were  our  ex- 


L.    P.    OF    THE    F.    F.    V.  59 

changes,  shuttle- wise,  of  the  great  prominences  in 
our  last  ten  years.  Nothing  was  too  great  for  us. 
The  roar  of  the  train,  and  that  outrageous  scream 
and  blast  of  the  steam- whistle,  were  as  trifles  to  us ; 
for  we  were  piped  up  higher  than  that,  and  in  a 
wider  range,  discussing  as  we  did,  not  our  affairs 
only,  but  the  pressing  interests  of  the  great  world, 
winding  up,  of  course,  with  the  Thirty-nine  Articles 
and  the  prospects  of  the  Universe.  An  hour  after 
reaching  your  city,  we  parted;  he,  stronger  than 
ever;  I,  ready  to  descend  rapidly  into  reactions. 
Strolling  along,  feebly,  by  the  Marble  Pillar,  I  looked 
wishfully  over  to  No.  46 ;  but  weak  as  I  was  from 
my  one  stout  friend,  I  couldn't  think  of  meeting 
another.  Not  all  our  pleasant  exchanges,  sir,  could 
tempt  me  to  cross  that  street. 

In  this  collapsed  condition,  I  came  home  in  the 
afternoon,  to  dinner  and  repose.  About  that  time, 
also,  came  a  shower  opening  the  very  windows  of 
heaven ;  and  after  dinner,  over  which  we  lingered 
lovingly,  just  as  the  shower  ceased,  somewhere 
about  four  to  five  o'clock,  there  was  another  knock 
at  the  door,  and  behold — second  event  of  the  day, 
and  tall  contrast  to  him  of  the  morning — my  great 
friend,  six  feet  four  and  three-quarters,  L.  P.  of  the 
F.  F.  V. !  Yes,  sir,  my  great  friend  and  refresh 
ment,  as  you  may  say,  from  the  Old  Dominion. 
All  through  that  shower,  he  had  been  on  our  bor 
ders,  in  a  shanty,  on  the  further  side  of  Eoaring 
Kiver,  waiting  for  the  floods  to  subside.  And  now 


60  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

here  he  was,  in  all  his  extreme  length,  and  with  that 
rich  full  voice,  which,  without  loudness,  could  be 
heard  all  over  the  house.  I  had  to  turn  him  around 
twice  in  the  hall,  to  enjoy  him  in  different  lights, 
and  at  all  points.  My  young  wife  came  forward  to 
meet  him,  almost  with  a  shout,  and  I  some  expected 
to  see  him  bend  down,  and  leave  an  impression 
upon  Mrs.  Margin;  which,  however,  he  did  not, 
but  talked  a  continual  stream  of  music  and  delight, 
at  the  state  of  things  now  arrived  at. 

Well,  sir,  he  has  been  with  us  three  days,  and 
he  grows  taller  every  day.  Taller  in  our  esteem,  in 
our  heart's  regard,  and  in  our  determination  to  keep 
him,  if  possible,  to  the  full  extent  of  his  furlough. 
Having  preached  four  sermons  a  week,  for  the  last 
ten  months,  now,  he  says,  is  the  time  for  rest. 
Duke  est  desipere  in  loco,  and  what  loco  like  this  (so 
he  flatters  me)  with  his  friend,  Mr.  Margin,  whose 
appreciation  of  rest  has  reached  a  perfection  scarcely 
to  be  found,  perhaps,  in  all  the  round  world.  Now 
for  easy  chairs  and  the  piazza,  the  book  and  the  ham 
mock  ;  or  rather,  the  hammock  without  the  book — 
(books  are  a  nuisance).  At  this  moment,  he  is 
lying  at  full  length  on  the  parlor  sofa,  smoking  a 
cigar.  He  is  calling  to  me  now,  and  his  voice  has 
to  travel  around  through  the  hall  and  two  door 
ways,  but  comes  with  perfect  distinctness. 

"I  say,  Margin — " 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Did  I  tell  you  about  the  little  boys?" 


RISING    SUN.  61 

(While  I  was  napping  yesterday,  my  friend  walk 
ed  down  to  the  Rising  Sun,  a  village  in  the  north 
east,  and  there  surprised  another  Virginia  friend 
and  rector,  and  was  passed  about  like  a  bottle  of 
old  wine  with  the  cork  undrawn,  his  friend  holding 
him  stoutly  by  both  hands,  while  he  presented  him 
to  some  half  dozen  ladies  and  two  clergymen,  who 
were  present.) 

"Did  I  tell  you  about  the  little  boys?" 

"  No.     What  about  the  boys  ?" 

"  Why,  sir,  there  were  four  of  them,  and  they 
followed  me  all  about  the  streets !" 

"Yes?" 

"Yes;  and  what  do  you  suppose  they  were 
after?" 

"A  penny,  perhaps." 

"  No ;  because  I  heard  some  of  their  remarks.  '  I 
say,  Jim,'  said  one,  'did  you  ever  see  any  thing 
like  that?'  'Crackee!'  says  another,  'just  look  at 
him!'  And  the  rascals  followed  me,  sir,  to  the 
very  door  of  the  rectory." 

My  friend  having  unburdened  himself  of  this 
matter,  relapses  again  into  silence,  though  I  dare 
say  he  is  smoking  vigorously,  and  not  unlikely, 
may  continue  talking  the  whole  matter  over  to 
himself,  for  some  time  to  come.  If  I  was  nearer,  I 
should  hear,  perhaps,  fragments  of  speech  thrown 
out  with  considerable  force,  such  as  the  rogues  !  the 
scamps  !  the  young  rascals !  but  not  unkindly,  for 


62  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

all  fire  and  power  as  he  is,  he  has  a  heart  (as  they 
say  out  West)  "  as  big  as  an  ox." 

And  now,  Mr.  Editor,  I  will  say  good-morning, 
remarking,  as  once  before,  that  I  am  not  now  in  the 
marginal  way.  We  design — my  friend  and  I;  I 
say  we  design — or  rather,  we  do  not  design.  That 
is  the  beauty  of  it :  plans  and  designs  are  laid  aside. 
We  rest  now,  and  wait  for  events.  All  things  of 
easy  approach  shall  be  welcome.  Nothing  more. 
Cigars  that  smoke  easy,  we  shall  smoke.  Dinners 
that  are  patriarchally  simple,  and  not  distracting  in 
temptations,  we  shall  have  from  time  to  time — in 
fact  daily ;  unless  we  may  arrive  at  that  happy  per 
fection  of  the  ideal  when  a  day  without  dinner  may 
seem  to  be  the  maximum  of  easy  enjoyment,  in 
which  case  we  shall  not  dine.  Cigars  and  easy 
positions  will  be  the  general  order,  with  occasional 
short  and  celestial  remarks.  The  great  point  will 
be  not  so  much  to  do  things,  as  to  let  them  be  done. 
While  we  pause,  the  morning  and  evening  will  con 
tinue  as  usual :  sun  and  shade,  and  rains  and  night- 
dews,  and  the  great  world  to  whom  they  are  sent ; 
these  all  will  come  and  go,  roll  about,  migrate, 
fluctuate,  and  so  forth,  but  as  pictures  only  to  Mr. 
Margin  and  his  eminent  friend  L.  P.,  of  the  F.  F.  V. 

Meantime  my  young  wife,  who  has  finished  her 
jellies — in  which  seraphic  employment,  with  short 
gown  and  up-rolled  sleeves,  she  has  been  busy  for 
so  many  happy  days — she,  I  say,  will  join  us  at 


TAKING   A  BEST.  63 

times,  waking  us  from  too  long  naps  with  some 
pleasant  song,  or  suggesting  occasional  novelties, 
all  in  keeping  with  our  sublimated  life.  Of  course, 
if  occasion  requires,  we  shall  preach  to  the  people 
roundabout ;  but  we  hope  there  will  be  no  occasion. 
After  our  four  sermons  a  week,  for  the  last  ten 
months,  we  feel  more  like  pardoning  everybody 
out  and  out.  I  say  we  feel  more  like  this,  as  sailors 
say,  letting  things  go  by  the  run :  but,  of  course, 
it's  wrong ;  we  are  aware  of  that,  and  if  called  upon, 
we  shall  hope  to  be  ready.  But  it  would  be 
as  wise,  perhaps,  to  let  us  alone  just  now,  for  our 
style  is  not  of  the  mealy-mouthed  kind.  No,  sir, 
and  may  God  preserve  me  from  any  levity  in  this 
matter :  we  preach,  as  my  father  says,  death,  judg 
ment,  and  eternity. 

Once  more,  Mr.  Editor,  good-morning;  and  till 
we  meet  again,  good-bye. 

Yours,          . 

"  If  you  do  not  hear  from  me  soon  again,  you  may  consider 
I  am  taking  a  rest." 

Don't  do  that,  our  dear  sir — don't  do  it.  Don't 
take  a  rest.  There's  something  sad  in  the  idea  of 
taking  a  rest ;  something  that  speaks  of  decay,  of 
energies  exhausted,  of  life-springs  drying  up.  To 
us  the  words  come  freighted  with  no  pleasant  mem 
ories.  We  had  an  aneient  friend  long  ago,  a 
rough  specimen  of  a  man,  but  every  inch  a  man — 


64  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

one  of  nature's  nobility — honest  and  straightfor 
ward  as  truth  itself,  whose  good  opinion  we  lost  for 
a  time  by  "  taking  a  rest."  He  was  a  man  of  eccen 
tricities,  of  idiosyncrasies,  if  you  please,  and  it  cost 
us  years  of  effort  to  get  back  into  our  old  place  in 
his  regards.  We  said  he  was  a  rough  specimen  of 
a  man,  but  he  was  one  of  giant  sympathies  and  a 
big  heart.  lie  was  a  man  of  the  back  settlements 
and  the  woods.  lie  was  a  mighty  hunter,  and  the 
game  he  sighted  might  count  itself  as  lost.  He 
loved  his  friends,  and  was  proud  of  them.  He 
loved  his  rifle  and  his  dogs.  He  loved  the  old 
woods  and  mountains,  and  the  wild  streams.  He 
was  older  by  a  score  of  years  than  ourself,  but 
the  icicles  of  age  never  gathered  around  his  heart, 
and  the  coldness  of  growing  years  never  chilled  the 
genial  warmth  of  his  nature.  He  has  passed  to  his 
rest  now,  and  sleeps  quietly  under  the  shadow  of 
thick  foliaged  maples  on  a  little  knoll  selected  by 
himself.  Calm  be  thy  slumbers,  mine  ancient 
friend,  and  happy  thy  long  future  in  the  world  to 
come.  He  loved  his  rifle  and  his  dogs,  and  his 
heart  was  ready  to  embrace  the  man  who  loved  the 
tangled  forest-paths,  who  loved  to  hear  the  music 
of  his  hounds  upon  the  mountain,  and  to  bring 
down  the  flying  deer.  A  marksman  himself,  he 
was  ready  to  love  the  man  who  could  equal  him  in 
skill  with  the  rifle ;  and  to  be  his  superior  was  a 
surer  passport  still  to  his  affections. 

On  a  Christmas  day,  long  ago,  when  we  were 


TUKKEY   SHOOTING.  65 

younger  by  many,  many  years,  than  we  are  now, 
we  went  to  a  gathering,  known  among  the  border 
villages  as  a  shooting  match.  Turkeys  were  the 
prizes  contended  for.  A  plank  was  placed  at  some 
five  and  twenty  rods  distance,  with  a  hole  in  it, 
through  which  was  thrust  the  head  of  the  turkey, 
while  his  body  was  secured  behind  it.  At  this 
mark  the  sportsmen  fired.  If  blood  was  drawn,  the 
marksman  was  entitled  to  the  turkey.  Each  com 
petitor  paid  a  small  piece  of  money  before  taking  a 
shot,  which  went  to  the  owner  of  the  turkey. 
"Well,  we  were  there  with  our  rifle  to  take  our 
chances  with  the  rest  for  a  Christmas  dinner.  A 
number  of  marksmen  had  preceded  us,  and  we 
ourselves  had  failed  in  a  shot  or  two,  when  it  was 
proposed  to  "  take  a  rest ;"  that  is,  to  lay  down  with 
the  rifle  resting  upon  a  block  properly  arranged, 
and  in  that  position  take  sight  and  fire  at  the  head 
of  the  poor  bird.  Its  owner  had  already  pocketed 
twice  its  value  in  shillings,  and  he  consented  to  the 
arrangement.  The  block  was  placed  in  position, 
and  the  first  shot  fell  by  lot  to  ourself.  Among 
hunters  in  those  days,  taking  a  rest  either  at  living 
game  or  a  dead  mark,  was  a  violation  of  all  the 
proprieties  of  woodcraft.  It  was  opposed  to  all  rule, 
a  practice  which,  if  largely  indulged  in,  would  cost 
one  his  position  among  sportsmen,  and  the  regards 
of  every  true  hunter  and  woodman.  As  we  said, 
the  first  shot  fell  by  lot  to  ourself,  and  we  were 
about  taking  our  position,  when  we  felt  a  hand  laid 


66  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

upon  our  shoulder.  Turning,  we  saw  our  old 
friend  standing  beside  us,  leaning  upon  his  long 
rifle.  We  had  not  noticed  him  before.  "Don't  do 
it,"  said  he;  "  Sam,  don't  do  it — never  take  a  rest, 
stand  up  like  a  man,  and  fire  off-hand ;  if  you  miss, 
you  can't  help  it,  and  nobody  blames  you,  but 
never  take  a  rest."  His  voice  sounded  more  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger,  but  we  saw  that  his  confi 
dence  in  our  woodcraft  was  shaken,  and  his  esteem 
for  us  as  a  hunter  fading  away. 

We  did  stand  up  and  fire  off-hand,  and  the  head 
of  the  turkey  was  shattered  by  our  ball.  That  shot 
did  much  towards  calling  back  to  us  his  wandering 
regards,  but  it  was  not  until  we  had  hunted  with 
him,  and  brought  down  many  a  noble  deer  in  his 
company,  that  the  impression  of  our  weakness  in 
"  taking  a  rest"  was  effaced  from  his  mind.  We 
admonish  you,  therefore,  our  very  dear  sir,  in  the 
language  of  our  ancient  friend,  u  Don't  do  it,  never 
take  a  rest.  Stand  up  like  a  man,  and  fire  off 
hand.  If  you  miss,  nobody  blames  you,  but  '  nev 
er  take  a  rest.'  "  There's  a  moral  in  the  admoni 
tion,  a  moral  and  deep  philosophy  in  the  advice. 
Always,  and  at  all  times  through  life,  whatever 
temptations  may  beset  you,  however  misfortune 
may  darken  around  you,  yield  not  a  foot  to  the 
tempter,  bend  not  a  joint  to  misfortune,  but  "  stand 
up  like  a  man  and  fire  off-hand." 

"  On  the  first  day  of  the  month,  and  among  the  first  of  those 
hours,  which  I  include  in  the  morning,  I  was  rounding  a  pleas- 


FIRST  SONG   OF  THE  LARK.       67 

ant  dream  up  stairs,  when  there  was  a  vigorous  knock  at  the 
front  door." 

Served  you  right,  our  dear  sir,  right,  to  a  dot. 
"What  right  had  you,  you,  blessed  with  intelligence, 
eyes  to  see,  and  ears  to  hear,  what  right  had  you  to 
be  "  rounding  a  pleasant  dream  up  stairs,"  when  all 
nature  was  awake,  joyous,  full  of  gladness,  chaunt- 
ing  the  songs  of  the  morning  ?  And  in  the  country, 
too !  Talk  not  of  "  pleasant  dreams  up  stairs,"  of  a 
summer  morning.  There's  no  such  paradox  in  na 
ture.  Dreams,  indeed  I  In  the  crowded  thorough 
fares  of  city  life,  the  thronged  streets  and  clustered 
houses,  where  the  air  is  poisoned  by  the  smoke  of 
ten  thousand  cooking-stoves,  and  machine-shops, 
and  gas-factories,  and  forges,  and  the  thousand  vil- 
lanous  smells  that  exhale  from  the  haunts  of  con 
densed  civilization,  "  a  pleasant  dream  up  stairs"  of 
a  morning  is  within  the  range  of  conjecture,  but 
such  a  thing  in  the  country  would  be  a  libel 
upon  nature.  No,  no!  Thank  your  stars  that 
a  worse  evil  did  not  befall  you.  Why,  our 
dear  sir,  you  should  have  been  up  when  the 
first  bright  gleam  of  the  morning  glanced  upward 
from  behind  the  eastern  summits.  You  should 
have  heard  the  first  song  of  the  lark,  as  he  leap 
ed  from  his  perch,  and  went  carolling  joyjully 
towards  the  sky.  You  should  have  seen  the 
last  stars  as  they  retired  from  their  watch,  passing 
away  into  the  depths  of  the  heavens.  You  should 
have  watched  the  mist  that  went  up  in  the  gray 


68  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

twilight,  from  "Bearing  River,"  and  faded  like  a 
vision  in  the  air.  You  should  have  seen  the  first 
ray  of  the  sun,  as  it  lighted  upon  the  tops  of  the 
mountains.  You  should  have  looked  away  to  the 
east,  and  seen  the  sun,  like  a  great  torch,  hanging 
for  a  moment  in  the  tree-tops,  and  then  noted  how 
gloriously  he  leaped  forward  into  the  clear  sky. 
You  should  have  seen  the  dew-drops,  sparkling  like 
diamonds  on  the  grass  blades,  and  heard  the  wild, 
free  song  of  the  birds  in  their  gleefulness.  You 
should  have  snuffed  the  pure  air,  loaded  with  the 
fragrance  of  flowers,  and  the  freshness  gathered 
from  the  foliage  of  the  woods.  With  these  things 
all  around  you,  you  should  have  looked  away  to 
the  Providence  that  spread  so  rich  a  feast;  to  the 
God  that  made  the  morning,  and  all  the  beautiful 
things  that  belong  to  it. 

"  Yes,  sir,  my  great  friend  and  refreshment,  as  you  may  say, 
from  the  Old  Dominion.  All  through  that  shower,  he  had  been 
on  our  borders  in  a  shanty,  on  the  hither  side  of  Roaring  River, 
waiting  for  the  floods  to  subside,  and  now  here  he  was,  in  all 
his  extreme  length,  and  with  that  rich,  full  voice,  which,  with 
out  being  loud,  could  be  heard  all  over  the  house." 

Strange  reunions — meetings  of  old  friends  under 
curious  circumstances,  sometimes  take  place.  Years 
may  have  fled  away,  events  may  have  hurried  us 
along,  changing  us  in  position,  in  appearance,  in 
feelings,  in  temper,  in  all  things.  Suddenly  an  an 
cient  friend  is  thrown  across  our  path,  and  our 


A   GOOD   TROUT  STREAM.         69 

youth,  the  long,  long  past,  comes  rushing  with  his 
presence  around  us.  The  present  vanishes,  and  we 
are  again  among  the  pleasant  memories  of  the  olden, 
time. 

Some  years  ago  we  were  at  Blosburgh,  in  Penn 
sylvania.  "We  went  there  ostensibly  to  view  the 
coal  mines.  The  entrance  to  these  mines  is  mid 
way  up  a  mountain  of  some  fifteen  hundred  feet  in 
height,  along  the  base  of  which  the  Tioga  Kiver 
flows,  which  is  here  but  a  good-sized  trout* stream, 
in  the  summer  season.  We  went  up  to  the  entrance 
of  the  mines.  We  saw  a  great  dark  hole  in  the 
side  of  the  mountain,  into  which  our  companions 
entered,  and  were  lost  to  sight  in  its  cavernous 
depths.  For  ourself,  we  have  no  taste  for  dark 
places  and  deep  holes  in  the  ground.  We  never 
enter  a  cave.  There 's  something  dismal  and  sepul 
chral  about  them.  They  smell  of  mortality.  We 
should  expect  to  see  skulls  grinning  at  us,  and  to 
stumble  over  dead  men's  bones.  We  keep  clear  of 
caves.  We  preferred  trout  fishing,  to  groping 
around  in  the  damps  of  the  mines,  away  in  the  car 
bonized  bowels  of  the  hill.  We  came  down  to  the 
river,  and  borrowing  a  rod  and  line,  started  up 
stream,  with  a  view  of  fishing  down.  We  travelled 
a  couple  of  miles  along  a  pleasant  path  that  follow 
ed  the  windings  of  the  river,  and  then  rigged  and 
threw  for  the  trout.  They  were  plenty  in  those 
days,  and  we  were  having  a  good  time  of  it  all 
alone  in  the  woods,  notwithstanding  the  affectionate 


70  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

attentions  of  the  mosquito  and  the  black-fly,  that 
phlebotomized  us  after  a  fashion  peculiar  to  them 
selves.  We  were  busy  hauling  in  the  trout  and 
fighting  the  mosquitoes,  and  as  we  came  round  a 
great  boulder,  bigger  than  a  haystack,  that  thrust 
itself  from  the  bank  half  way  across  the  stream, 
there  we  stood  face  to  face  with  an  old  friend  that 
we  had  lost  sight  of  for  a  dozen  years.  "  Hallo ! 
Harry,"  said  we,  "where  on  earth  did  you  come 
from?"  "And  from  what  cloud  did  you  drop?" 
was  his  reply,  as  we  shook  hands  most  cordially. 
We  sat  down  upon  that  old  moss-covered  boulder, 
and  talked  of  the  days  of  Old.  We  were  school 
mates  in  our  boyhood.  We  were  students  in  the 
same  law  office,  were  examined  in  the  same  class 
for  admission  to  the  profession,  returned  from  Al 
bany,  with  our  licenses  in  our  pockets,  together, 
and  the  week  after  such  return  we  shook  hands  and 
parted,  swinging  out  in  different  directions  into  the 
world.  For  a  year  or  two  we  heard  of  him  occa 
sionally;  then  darkness  settled  down  between  us, 
and  we  heard  of  him  no  more  till  we  met  in  the 
middle  of  the  Tioga  Kiver,  at  the  spot  where  that 
big  boulder  stands  so  boldly  out  into  the  stream, 
each  with  a  fishing-rod  in  his  hand.  The  world  had 
gone  well  with  him.  He  had  gathered  largely  of 
its  treasures.  He  was  a  man  known  on  'Change. 

We  parted  the  next  morning,  never  to  meet 
again.  Consumption  laid  its  withering  hand  upon 
him.  He  crossed  the  great  ocean,  in  the  hope  that 


,    KETURNING   HOME   TO  DIE.       71 

the  genial  climate  of  the  South  of  Europe  would 
bring  back  health  and  vigor  to  his  frame.  He  vis 
ited  Italy ;  spent  a  few  months  at  Kome,  and  then 
passed  on  to  Venice.  But  the  grasp  of  death  was 
upon  him,  and  he  turned  his  feeble  steps  towards 
home,  in  the  hope  of  dying  in  the  midst  of  his  kin 
dred.  He  died  on  the  ocean  ;  and  he  now  sleeps  in 
a  New  England  churchyard,  where  his  fathers 
sleep.  He  was  the  only  son  of  his  parents,  and  he 
left  no  children. 


VI. 

A  CHAPTER  FOR  THE  SABBATH. 

MY  tall  friend  is  gone.  Even  now,  as  I  write,  ho 
is  speeding  on  over  the  long  iron  tracks,  to  the 
Blue  Eidge  of  the  Old  Dominion.  The  round 
week — seven  golden  days — he  staid  with  us,  find 
ing  some  rest,  we  trust ;  but  now  all  this  is  of  the 
past.  By-gone,  so  soon !  Pictures  all,  so  soon ! 
Oh,  the  swift  certainty  of  to-morrow;  for  however  we 
may  pause,  God  has  always  something  for  us  to  do. 
He,  who  doth  neither  slumber  nor  sleep,  how  kind 
ly,  how  safely,  he  takes  us  all  on  through  the  night, 
into  the  beautiful  morning  ! 

My  friend,  sir,  was  in  great  demand.  All  our 
choice  arrangements  for  repose  were  of  small  ac 
count.  And  as  life  flies  by  now-a-days,  perhaps  it 
is  well.  We  should  make  no  long  steps  now,  for 
there  is  little  time  for  rest  here.  Time  enough  for 
that — to  those  who  shall  attain  to  the  true  life — 
when  they  shall  have  shaken  off  these  working 
garments  and  put  on  the  white  robes;  when  the 
lame  shall  walk,  and  the  blind  see,  and  the  deaf 


A   GOOD-BYE    TO     THE    L.     P.  73 

hear;  wlicn  their  halting  frames  shall  be  clothed 
anew  with  strength  and  with  glory,  and  their  pal 
sied  tongues  find  voice  in  the  acclamations  of  that 
great  host,  u  which  no  man  can  number."  Time 
enough  for  that,  when  the  night  cometh,  that  no 
man  can  work.  When  from  groping  through  these 
swift-rolling  years,  they  shall  see,  at  last,  face  to 
face,  and  walk  in  the  light  of  God  for  ever  1  Time 
enough  for  repose,  in  that  great  time  to  come,  the 
time  beyond  all  time,  the  great  circle,  the  round 
time,  when  they  shall  have  gone  up  to  dwell  for 
ever  with  their  master  and  their  king,  their  Saviour 
and  their  ^Redeemer,  Jesus  Christ  the  Eighteous  ! 

But  now,  oh  how  swiftly  speeds  the  world !  No, 
it  is  not  the  place  for  rest.  "  My  Father  worketh 
hitherto,"  said  Christ,  "and  I  work."  No,  it  is 
neither  the  place  nor  the  time  for  rest.  Nor  is  it  to 
be  found  here.  Health  itself,  life  itself,  subsists 
only  in  action,  change,  accomplishment.  This  tire 
less  spirit,  as  it  came  from  God,  so  in  some  measure 
like  Him,  it  scarcely  can  slumber  or  sleep,  even 
here. 

Time  has  been  when,  owing  chiefly  to  physical 
causes,  we  have  loved  rather  the  life  of  thought  and 
meditation ;  but  the  union  of  both — meditation  and 
action — is  the  true  life,  both  here  and  elsewhere. 
The  good  deed,  the  kind  word,  the  helping  hand  in 
the  right  way — and  when  these  are  impossible,  the 
bended  knee  in  the  silent  chamber,  the  use  of  that 
power  that  "moves  the  arm  that  moves  the  uni- 


74  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

verse ;"  these  are  the  agencies — these  are  the  pow 
ers  that  be.  To  whom  these  are  possible,  all  else  is 
but  wind  and  ashes. 

A  man  may  float  in  deep  water,  motionless,  by 
looking  straight  u.p  to  Heaven  ;  but  he  must  look 
out  for  the  heavy  seas.  In  fact,  he  can  float  no 
where,  save  in  the  still  water,  and  at  best,  it  is  but 
floating:  balancing,  as  it  were,  between  life  and 
death.  To  make  headway,  he  must  strike  out  right 
and  left,  pull  and  push,  and  reach  on  continually : 
and,  moreover  (to  finish  this  matter),  it  is  mostly 
your  good  swimmers  only  who  can  float. 

Make  no  long  stay,  Mr.  Editor,  in  any  "  Saint's 
Rest"*  you  may  find  here.  The  world  rolls  too  fast 
now  for  long  pauses.  As  in  youth  the  days  were 
long,  and  in  age  they  seem  to  take  wings  for  their 
travel,  so  the  world  of  to-day,  as  it  quickens  and 
concentrates  thought  and  action,  quickens  and 
shortens  the  minutes,  the  hours,  the  days  and  the 
weeks,  and  the  round  year  itself:  so  that  we  can 
look  forward  to  some  approximation  to  that  life  in 
which,  even  to  us,  "  a  thousand  years  may  be  as 
one  day,  and  one  day  as  a  thousand  years." 

Good-bye,  my  tall  Virginian,  and  may  God  pros 
per  you  for  ever,  and  make  all  your  days  as  pure 
as  the  sunlight,  and  as  bright.  Good-bye — but  come 
back  again — will  you?  Come  back  in  the  golden 
October,  and  wake  us  again  with  your  clarion 
tones.  John  Knox,  as  he  preached  to  the  assembled 
*  See  Appendix  B. 


BISHOP  HEBER'S   POETRY.        75 

royalties  of  Scotland,  could  not  more  have  startled 
our  sleepy  souls,  than  did  your  ringing  cadences 
last  Sunday  night.  Come  back,  and  rouse  us  from 
the  dull  inaction  of  this  hum-drum  life.  Come 
back,  and  leave  a  few  coals  of  your  Southern  fire  on 
our  Northern  altars,  and  cry  aloud  to  us,  "  Awake, 
thou  that  sleepest,  and  arise  from  the  dead,  and 
Christ  shall  give  thee  life." 

Yours,         . 

"  He  who  doth  neither  slumber  nor  sleep,  how  kindly,  how 
safely,  he  takes  us  all  through  the  night  into  the  beautiful 
morning  1" 

We  never  'think  of  the  good  Providence  that 
watches  over  the  world,  in  the  still  hours  of  the 
night,  without  connecting  with  the  thought  a  beau 
tiful  little  hymn,  of  which  we  think  Bishop  HEBEB 
was  the  author,  although  of  this  we  are  not  certain  ; 
a  hymn  so  full  of  the  pure  spirit  of  poetry,  as  well 
as  devotion,  that  we  venture  to  give  it  here : 

Hark !  'tis  the  breeze  of  twilight  calling 

Earth's  weary  children  to  repose  : 
While  round  the  couch  of  nature,  falling 

Gently  the  night's  soft  curtain's  close. 
Soon  o'er  the  world  in  sleep  reclining, 

Numberless  stars  in  yonder  dark, 
Will  look  like  eyes  of  seraph's,  shining 

From  out  the  veil  that  hides  the  ark. 

Guard  us,  oh  thou  that  never  sleepest — 
Thou  that  in  silence  throned  above  ; 


76  COUNTRY    MARGINS. 

\Vlio  through  all  time,  unwearied,  keepest 
Thy  watch  of  glory,  power  and  love. 

Grant  that  beneath  thine  eye  securely, 
Our  souls  from  life  a  while  withdrawn, 

May  in  the  darkness,  stilly,  purely, 
Like  sealed  fountains,  rest  till  dawn. 

Strange  linking  of  memories  !  Speaking  of 
Bishop  HEBER  reminds  us  of  an  anecdote  of  the  ex 
cellent  Bishop  C .  We  were  in  New  York 

soon  after  Trinity  Church  was  completed,  in  com 
pany  with  the  lamented  JOHN  YOUNG,  late  Gov 
ernor  of  this  State.  We  visited  the  church  to 
gether.  We  found,  upon  entering,  a  venerable 
man,  who  stood  near  the  centre  of  the  great  aisle 
looking  with  apparent  rapture  upon  the  gorgeous 
and  imposing  architecture  of  the  interior  of  that 

magnificent  structure.    It  was  Bishop  C .    The 

Governor  was  acquainted  with  him.  After  a  frank 
and  cordial  greeting,  the  good  Bishop  remarked,  "  I 
have  been  thinking,"  said  he,  "  how  different  our 
place  of  worship  was  when  I  first  became  the  rector 
of  a  parish  in  what  is  now  my  diocese,  from  this 
splendid  edifice.  It  was  a  little  building,  half 
school-house  and  half  church,  and  cost  less  than 
five  hundred  dollars.  Yet  we  were  a  happy  and 
united  people,  and,  I  sometimes  think,  more  purely 
devotional  and  pious  than  we  were  at  a  later  period, 
when  we  worshipped  in  a  vastly  more  costly 
church.  It  always  seems  to  me  that  pride  enters 
somewhat  too  largely  into  the  devotional  exercises 


GREAT  AND  GLORIOUS   TRUTHS.    77 

of  a  place  like  this ;  and  I  think  of  the  lines  in  one 
of  our  beautiful  hymns  : 

"  Say,  shall  we  worship  with  costly  devotion, 

Odors  of  Eden  and  offerings  divine, 
Gems  from  the  mountain,  pearls  from  the  ocean, 

Myrrh  from  the  forest  and  gold  from  the  mine  ? 
Yainly  we  offer  each  ample  oblation, 

Yainly  with  gifts  we  his  favor  secure  : 
Richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor." 

There  was  something  infinitely  impressive  in  the 
earnest  and  solemn,  yet  simple  manner  with  which 
the  good  Bishop  repeated  those  lines.  They  con 
tained,  as  he  spoke  them,  a  whole  sermon — one  that 
went  to  the  heart  with  far  greater  force  and  direct 
ness  than  many  we  have  heard  that  were  vastly 
more  studied  and  elaborate. 

"  Richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor." 

Great  and  glorious  truths,  all !  Infinite  goodness 
could  alone  have  sent  them  forth  to  the  world,  to 
give  comfort  and  hope  to  man.  What  if  we  be 
poor  and  of  mean  estate  ?  Our  hold  on  heaven  is 
stronger  than  theirs  who  dwell  in  palaces,  and  are 
clothed  in  purple.  When  misfortune  and  sorrow 
gather  around  us,  when  desolation  comes  down 
upon  us  like  a  flood,  and  destruction  sweeps  away 
the  little  we  may  have  gathered  of  the  world's  goods? 
when  we  look  forward  to  a  helpless  age  and  see  no 


78  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

promise  of  provision  for  its  dreary  hours,  when  the 
heart  sinks  before  the  darkness  of  the  future,  then 
comes  the  soul-cheering  truth,  fresh  from  the 
throne  of  God,  a  voice  speaking  from  the  cloud 
that  encompasses  us, 

"  Richer  by  far  is  the  heart's  adoration, 

Dearer  to  God  are  the  prayers  of  the  poor." 

"  And  as  life  flies  by  now-a-days,  perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  we 
should  make  no  long  stops,  for  there  is  little  time  for  rest  here." 

Aye  !  "  March  on !"  is  the  order  of  the  universe, 
now ;  no  halting  by  the  way — no  pausing  to  reckon 
with  the  past,  or  calculate  the  future.  The  world 
is  in  motion.  A  rest  under  the  shadow  of  tall 
trees,  by  the  bubbling  fountain,  leaves  you  behind. 
The  great  army  passes  on,  and  you  are  reckoned, 
as  you  are  in  fact,  a  laggard  in  the  race  of  life. 
Look  back  for  only  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  see 
the  mighty  stride  that  the  world  has  taken.  Where, 
then,  were  the  iron  roads  over  which  the  locomotive 
now  thunders  on  his  mission  of  civilization — where 
the  telegraph  that  mocks  at  time  and  annihilates 
space?  Hark!  there  are  new  sounds  breaking  the 
stillness  of  night,  and  startling  the  mountain  echoes 
from  their  sleep  of  ages  !  It  is  the  scream  of  the 
steam- whistle,  the  snort  of  the  iron-horse,  the  deep 
rumble  of  his  long  train,  freighted  with  human  life, 
rushing  with  lightning  speed,  shaking  the  ground 
like  an  earthquake,  as  it  moves  along.  A  new 


OLDMEHOKIES.  79 

sight  is  seen  on  the  ocean.  It  is  the  tall  ship  that 
goes  forward  when  the  air  is  still,  and  calmness  is 
on  the  face  of  the  deep — that  moves  forward  in  the 
eye  of  the  wind,  forward  still  in  the  face  of  the 
storm — that  turns  not  from  its  course  for  billow  or 
blast.  It  is  the  ocean  steamer,  that  makes  but  a 
ferriage  of  seas,  that  comes  and  goes  over  the  great 
deep  regardless  of  wind  or  storm.  These  are  but 
types  of  the  mighty  progress  of  civilization  within 
that  quarter  of  a  century.  Look  back  again  to  the 
scenes  of  your  boyhood.  Where  are  the  landmarks 
that  you  loved,  the  pleasant  things  around  which 
cluster  the  memories  of  youth?  Where  the  tall 
forest  tree  that  was  spared  when  the  old  woods 
were  swept  away?  Where  the  clustered  plum- 
trees,  the  wild  hazles,  the  willows  along  the  brook, 
the  maples  that  shaded  the  spring  that  came  out 
from  among  their  roots  ?  Gone  !  all  gone !  The 
old  school -house  and  the  play-grounds — the  path 
across  the  fields  that  led  to  them — where  are  they  ? 
Gone  again,  all  gone !  The  friends,  the  companions 
of  your  youth — where  are  they  ?  A  voice  comes 
out  of  the  deep  silence  of  the  grave,  from  the  ocean, 
from  the  far-off  city  —  from  beyond  mountain 
ranges,  bearing  the  solemn  answer — 

"  They  are  scattered  and  parted  by  mountain  and  wave, 
And  some  are  in  the  cold,  silent  womb  of  the  grave." 

Where  are  the  high  hopes,  the  lofty  aspirations, 
with  which  we  started  in  our  young  career? 


80  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

Gone,  all  gone  !  wrecked  by  the  hand  of  disease  laid 
heavily  upon  us.  Wrecked  by  the  hand  of  death 
that  tore  from  us  the  joy  of  our  being  and  the 
treasures  of  our  hearts.  Wrecked  by  disappoint 
ment  in  a  thousand  forms,  that  beset  us  in  our  path 
of  life. 

Yes,  yes,  onward  and  onward  is  the  word.  Ev 
erything  is  moving.  Childhood  passes  to  youth, 
youth  moves  onward  to  manhood,  manhood  to  old 
age,  and  the  grave  devours  them  all.  If  we  pause, 
even  to  linger  by  the  graves  of  the  loved  and  the 
lost  to  us,  the  tramp,  tramp,  of  the  world  is  heard 
passing  us.  If  we  fall,  its  onward  tramp  is  over  us 
as  it  hurries  along  in  the  forward  movement  Like 
a  mighty  river,  the  tide  of  human  life,  the  current 
of  human  progress,  flows  on,  pauseless  and  steady, 
swelling  in  volume,  moving  forever  and  ever  to 
wards  eternity.  But  what  of  that  ?  Better  to  float 
on  with  the  tide,  than  to  pause  in  the  turgid  eddies, 
and  stagnant  bayous,  even  though  our  course  be 
over  beetling  precipices  into  the  boiling  whirlpool 
beneath  them.  On  the  spray  of  the  cataract  hangs 
the  rainbow  of  promise.  It  is  the  sign  of  redemp 
tion,  the  seal  to  the  covenant  of  God,  that  he  will 
rescue  us  from  the  troubled  waters,  and  take  us  to 
his  "house  not  built  with  hands,  eternal  in  the 
heavens." 

"  Good-bye." 

How  many  emotions  cluster  around  that  word  ! 
How  full  of  sadness,  and  to  us,  how  full  of 


THE  LAST  FAREWELL.  81 

sorrow   it   sounds !     It  is  with   us  a  consecrated 
word.      We   heard  it   once   within   the   year,    as 
we  hope  never  to  hear  it  again.     We  spoke  it 
on  an  occasion  such  as  we  hope  never  to  speak  it 
again.     It  was  in  the  chamber  of  death,  at  the  still 
hour  of  night's  noon.     The  curtains  to  the  windows 
were  all  closed,  the  lights  were  shaded,  and  we 
stood  in  the  dim  and  solemn  twilight,  with  others, 
around  the  bed  of  the  dying.     The  damps  of  death 
were  on  her  pale  young  brow,  and  coldness  was  on 
her  lips,  as  we  kissed  her  for  the  last  time  while 
living.     "  Good-bye,  my  daughter,"  we  whispered, 
and  "  Good-bye,  father,"  came  faintly  from  her  dy 
ing  lips.    We  know  not  if  she  ever  spoke  more,  but 
"  Good-bye"  was  the  last  we  ever  heard  of  her  sweet 
voice.     We  hear  that  sorrowful  word  often  and 
often,  as  we  sit  alone  busy  with  the  memories  of  the 
past.     We  hear  it  in  the  silence  of  night,  in  the 
hours  of  nervous  wakefulness,  as  we  lay  upon  our 
bed  thinking  of  the  loved  and  the  lost  to  us.     We 
hear  it  in  our  dreams,  when  her  sweet  face  comes 
back  to  us,  as  it  was  in  its  loveliness  and  beauty. 
We  hear  it  when  we  sit  beside  her  grave  in  the 
cemetery  where  she  sleeps,  alone,  with  no  kindred 
as  yet  by  her  side.     She  was  the  hope  of  our  life, 
the  prop  upon  which  to  lean  when  age  should  come 
upon  us,  and  life  should  be  running  to  its  dregs- 
The  hope  and  the  prop  is  gone,  and  we  care  not 
how  soon  we  go  down  to  sleep  beside  our  darling, 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  trees  in  the  city  of  the  dead. 
4 


VII. 

ROARINO     RIVER. 

How  are  you  now,  my  friend?  Rejoicing,  no 
doubt,  on  this  first  wave  of  coolness  and  strength. 
But  how  were  you  in  the  late  solstice  ?  Sitting,  as 
we  now  dor  by  fires,  morning  and  evening,  it  seems 
like  looking  far  away  into  the  depths  of  last  sum 
mer,  and  yet  it  is  but  one  short  week.  Midway  of 
that  solstice,  came  our  young  friends  Snowdrop  and 
Honeysuckle,  from  a  down-river  margin,  and  with 
the  ease  and  grace  of  maidenhood,  melted  at  once, 
into  our  quiet  ways  ;  took  attitudes,  at  once,  all  in 
keeping,  and  were  properly  silent  and  musing  for 
so  solemn  a  time.  Pleasant  pictures — Snowdrop 
and  Honeysuckle — and  good  for  warm  weather. 
But  not  so  our  friend  Powerful,  who  came  with 
them ;  he  being  not  at  all  adapted  to  such  high 
ranges  of  the  mercury.  Too  fiery  and  precipitous. 
"Why,  sir,  he  had  the  madness  to  go  into  argument 
before  he  had  been  ten  minutes  under  our  roof ; 
and  this,  when  earth  and  sky  were  panting  and 
breathless  in  that  hot  blast.  And  my  private  opin 
ion  is,  (I  must  tell  you,  sub  rosa,  that  I  like  Power- 


STOP   E  v  E  11  Y   THING.  83 

ful,  in  totOj  fire  and  all,  for  lie  is  equal  to  about  sev 
enteen  of  the  common  young  men  of  these  times), 
but  I  haven't  a  doubt  that  he  had  been  in  argument 
all  day.  How  else,  and  owing  to  his  plunging  na. 
ture,  and  my  quick  sympathy  with  it,  (for  I  jump 
to  all  humors,)  how  else  could  we  have  tumbled 
out  of  that  train  as  we  did,  while  carpet-bags  came 
after,  through  the  windows,  and  our  two  large 
trunks,  in  the  hot  haste,  slipped  fizzing  away  into 
the  sides  of  the  north,  and  all  the  people  laughed  at 
our  confusion  ? 

Let  that  pass,  for  the  trunks  came  back  the  next 
day,  and  three  days  later  the  cool  winds  northwest 
erly.  But  then,  in  view  of  what  might  happen  with 
Powerful  in  the  house,  and  of  what  was  happening, 
the  hot,  white,  quivering  sunlight  pouring  down 
day  after  day,  I  issued  the  following  general  order : 
"Eemember  the  weather,  my  people,  and  be  wise. 
Propositions  are  vain,  and  arguments  all  out  of 
place.  This  day  avoid  controversy  and  shun  dis 
putation.  Argue  with  no  man,  or  woman.  If  you 
find  a  sitz-bath,  sit  down  on  it,  asking  no  questions, 
but  don't  go  spying  about.  Stop  every  thing  that 
can  be  stopped,  and  let  us  rest.  Stop  talking,  stop 
thinking,  stop  eating,  stop  drinking,  stop  walking 
up  and  down  the  room ;  and  in  fine,  retire  as  far  as 
possible  into  a  vacuum,  and  there  remain  until  the 
north  wind  blows  again." 

My  next  grand  proposition  (for  the  general  order 
was  scouted  all  over  the  house)  I  brought  forward 


84  0  o  u  N  T  B  Y    MARGINS. 

as  modestly  as  possible,  merely  holding  it  forth,  as 
a  stray  thought  which  had  occurred  to  me,  to  wit : 
chairs  in  Roaring  River — under  the  bridge,  sir.  In 
the  shoal  water,  you  know,  say  about  waist  deep, 
and  there  to  sit,  making  short  remarks,  and  waiting 
for  the  wind  to  blow.  The  Editor  was  to  be  in 
vited,  and  we  were  all  to  form  a  circle  there  and 
talk  up  ancient  events — all  in  chairs  in  Roaring 
River.  I  say  ancient  events,  for  I  should  know 
you  instantly :  you  would  be  to  me  as  an  open  vol 
ume — a  folio  of  rare  value — all  in  chairs  in  Roaring 
River.  Small  Bob  would  bring  us  the  proper  re 
freshments;  sweet  milk  loaded  with  ice  and  one 
brown  cottage  loaf,  and  water  from  the  well,  from 
the  old  oaken  bucket,  sitting  all  around  in  State 
editorial — all  in  chairs  in  Roaring  River. 

But  what  strange  mistiming  of  nonsense  was  all 
this,  sir,  when  men  were  dropping  dead  in  the 
streets  of  our  cities  (as  the  swift  lightning  soon  re 
ported  to  us),  not  in  twos,  and  in  threes,  but  in  tens 
and  twenties,  and  in  hundreds !  And  still  comes 
the  report  from  a  far  Southern  city — two  hundred 
dead,  to-day. 

There 's  a  time  for  work,  and  a  time  for  play, 
says  the  old  adage.  But  a  startling  question  some 
times  presents  itself,  as  to  whether  the  world  has 
not  outgrown  its  play-time,  leaving  us  the  work 
only.  Certainly  there  is  not  much  play-time,  now, 
to  the  people  of  that  plague-smitten  city. 

Two  hundred  dead,  to-day  !    Gone  away,  that  is  to 


W  ii  E  R-E  A  R  E    w  E   GOING?          85 

say,  to  try  another  mode  of  living ;  another  mode 
of  acting ;  another  mode  of  thinking.  No,  not  that. 
For  as  a  man  thinketh,  so  is  he.  And  as  a  man  dies, 
so  he  remains.  Whatever  moral  pestilence  he  dies 
with,  he  takes  with  him.  Whatever  poisoned  gar 
ment  he  has  on,  is  his  forever.  He  can  ship  it  to  no 
foreign  market ;  and  if  he  cries  it  at  auction,  no 
man  will  buy.  Nor  will  fire  burn,  or  the  moth 
consume  it.  Like  himself,  it  is  immortal. 

Bat  move  on  !  say  you ;  and  move  on  !  shouts  the 
world.  Get  out  of  the  way.  We  can't  stop  here  over 
a  dead  body. 

No,  indeed,  but  oh  my  friend,  where  are  we  going  ? 
Where,  and  under  whose  orders?  Who  has  the 
command,  in  this  case?  Who  is  Officer  of  the 
Night?  for  the  look-out,  just  now,  is  like  that  of 
night,  rather  than  the  light  of  day.  I  don't  know, 
sir,  about  this  onward  movement,  until  we  establish 
quite  well  what  we  are  about.  I  must  be  posted  on 
this,  before  I  make  the  first  step.  To  cast  about, 
with  whatever  vigor,  or  with  whatever  hopefulness 
that  all  will  be  right  by-and-bye,  will  in  nowise 
modify  the  ultimate  fact ;  and  this  ultimatum  I  must 
not  guess  at,  but  know. 

For  motion,  sir,  is  not  life.  Momentum  is  not  life. 
It  is  a  power,  or  rather  it  is  a  result,  but  it  is  not 
life.  The  iron  horse  that  leaves  your  city  in  the 
early  morning  and  takes  his  last  refreshment  this 
side  of  Buffalo,  somewhere  before  sundown,  has 
traversed  some  hundreds  of  miles ;  but  he  has  only 


86  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

changed  places;  and  this  he  has  done,  only  by 
clinging  to  the  rails.  Take  away  his  hold  upon 
earth — his  grasp  from  the  iron  bar — and  though  his 
wheels  may  flash  with  a  whiz,  and  his  pipes  sputter 
and  scream  to  the  verge  of  madness,  he  will  not 
have  moved  forward  a  hair's  breadth.  A  grasshop 
per  shall  sit  square  before  his  driving-wheel,  and 
laugh  at  him  all  the  day  long. 

No,  sir,  45  miles  an  hour  takes  no  man  nearer  to 
Heaven.  If  we  are  to  march  on,  let  us  know  the 
way,  and  the  country  whither  we  go.  We  have  but 
one  day  before  us,  and  by  night  we  must  rest  some 
where,  if  possible.  It  would  be  sad,  after  a  hard 
day's  work,  to  find  no  welcome,  no  glad  face  to  meet 
us,  no  news  of  home,  of  rest,  of  peace,  no  cheering 
voice  to  hail  us,  through  the  deepening  gloom, — 
1 '  A II  righ  t !  This  way,  my  friend  !  A II  right ! ' ' 

Not  to  hear  this,  but  to  take  our  wearied  limbs 
on  into  still  deeper  darkness,  and  be  conscious,  sud 
denly,  that  we  are  lost — that  we  have  taken  the 
wrong  way — this  would  be  sad,  it  would  be  ter 
rible.  Yours,  . 

"  Chairs  in  Roaring  River,  under  the  bridge,  sir.  In  the  shoal 
water,  you  know,  say  about  waist  deep,  and  there  to  sit,  making 
short  remarks,  and  waiting  for  the  wind  to  blow.  The  Editor 
was  to  be  invited,  and  we  were  all  to  form  a  circle  there,  and 
talk  of  ancient  events — all  in  chairs  in  Roaring  River — Small 
Bob  would  bring  us  the  proper  refreshment,  sweet  milk  loaded 
with  ice,  and  one  brown  cottage  loaf,  and  water  from  the  well 
from  the  old  oaken  bucket,  sitting  all  around  in  state  editorial, 
all  in  chairs  in  Roaring  River." 


MOUNTAINS   AND    RIVERS.        87 

We  should  not  have  accepted  that  invitation. 
We  love  rivers.  We  love  to  look  upon  them  as 
they  flow  on  forever,  and  yet  are  never  wasted 
We  love  to  inquire  how  it  can  be,  that  their  cease 
less  current,  that  always  has  been  and  always  will 
be  moving  away  and  away  towards  the  ocean,  should 
never  be  exhausted  ?  To  ask  of  science  how  they 
gather  their  constant,  unfailing  supply,  and  why  the 
ocean,  into  which  all  these  gigantic  tributaries  pour 
their  mighty  floods,  never  overleaps  its  bounds? 
To  ask  philosophy,  by  what  subtle  machinery  the 
far-off  fountains  that  come  out  from  away  up  among 
the  mountains,  are  fed  with  fresh  water  forever? 
Why  they  always  bubble  up  in  the  same  place,  and 
run  away  in  the  same  channel  to  make  up  these 
great  rivers  ?  We  like  to  look  upon  the  bubbles 
that  float  along  on  the  surface  of  the  water,  and  see 
them  burst  and  vanish  away.  We  like  to  watch 
the  spray  that  goes  up  from  the  cataract  and  the 
turbulent  rapids,  and  the  mist  that  rises  from  the 
broad,  still  current.  As  the  river  moves  along  at 
our  feet,  never  pausing,  finding  no  resting-place  in 
its  ceaseless  flow,  such,  we  say,  is  the  tide  of  human 
life.  The  bubbles  that  float  upon  its  surface  are 
the  hopes  of  man.  The  spray  and  the  mists  are  his 
cherished  plans  and  schemes  of  life.  The  bubbles 
burst,  the  spray  and  the  mists  vanish  away,  but  the 
river  moves  on  to  the  ocean. 

A   pleasant  place   for  meditation   is  "  Eoaring 
River,"  but  to  sit  waist  deep  in  its  waters,  beneath 


88  COUNTRY    MARGINS. 

the  shadow  of  the  bridge,  does  not  comport  with  our 
philosophy.  There  is  romance,  doubtless,  in  the 
matter,  but  it  is  not  our  kind  of  romance ;  and  hot 
or  cold,  sunshine  or  a  cloudy  sky,  let  the  mercury 
range  high  or  hide  itself  in  the  bulb,  "  we'll  none  of 
it."  If  we  must  needs  "  sit  around  in  State  editorial 
— all  in  chairs  in  Roaring  Eiver,"  we  should  claim 
the  highest  seat,  the  longest  legged  chair — one  in 
which  we  could  sit  with  our  feet  on  the  top  round, 
clear  of  the  water.  We  would  not  mind  being  a 
good  deal  doubled  up,  drawn  together  in  a  heap  like, 
for  the  sake  of  the  company  and  the  refreshments, 
but  we  should  cut  the  concern,  vamose  when  the 
water  began  to  come  into  our  boots. 

"  Two  hundred  dead,  to-day." 

Well,  what  of  that  ?  Remember  we  speak  not 
for  ourself.  Ours  is  not  the  voice  of  a  disintegrated 
atom,  an  individuality.  We  speak  for  the  world, 
for  aggregated  humanity,  and  we  say  what  of  that  ? 
Think  of  the  physical  suffering  that  wrung  the  joints 
of  these  "  two  hundred  dead"  before  the  spirit  left 
them.  We  answer  again,  what  of  that?  Is  physical 
suffering  a  new  thing  under  the  sun,  to  startle  us  by 
its  cry  of  anguish,  and  make  us  to  pause  by  the 
way-side  for  its  contemplation  ?  Think  of  the  sor 
rows,  the  tears  that  are  wrung  from  the  living,  the 
broken  hearts,  the  crushed  hopes  that  followed  to 
the  grave  these  "  two  hundred  dead,  to-day."  Again 
we  repeat,  what  of  that  ?  Is  sorrow  a  new  thing  on 


ALLABOAKD!  89 

the  earth?  Are  broken  hearts  strangers  to  the 
world,  or  crushed  hopes  a  novelty  ?  Talk  not  to  us 
about  physical  suffering  or  mental  anguish — what 
are  they  to  us  ?  we  have  no  time  to  listen.  The  bell 
rings,  the  steam  whistle  shrieks,  "  All  aboard !"  cries 
the  conductor,  and  we  are  off  on  the  train  that 
never  returns — the  cars  that  are  always  running  the 
same  way.  And  herein  is  the  singularity  of  this 
railroad  of  life — there  is  no  return  train.  The  travel 
is  always  in  one  direction.  The  world  is  moving, 
every  living  thing  is  whirling  with  a  rush  towards 
the  great  terminus,  and  of  all  the  countless  millions 
that  have  travelled  that  road,  not  one  has  ever  re 
turned.  Strange  fascinations,  wonderful  attractions 
must  that  country  have,  from  which  no  traveller 
ever  comes  back. 

But  there  are  "two  hundred  dead  to-day,"  say 
you.  As  an  individual,  we  can  comprehend  the 
vast  amount  of  suffering,  the  aggregated  anguish 
that  pervades  the  stricken  city.  The  plague  is  no 
respecter  of  persons.  It  strikes  every  where.  The 
rich,  the  poor,  the  high,  the  low,  the  respected,  and 
the  despised — the  mother  that  breathes  out  her  life 
in  the  arms  of  her  children,  and  the  forsaken,,  that 
dies  by  the  way-side.  The  pestilence  smites  at 
random  every  where.  Here  is  a  gorgeous  hearse, 
followed  by  a  long  train  of  mourners ;  the  dead  is 
going  to  his  rest  beneath  the  shadow  of  a  tall  monu 
ment  in  the  cemetery.  Handle  the  coffin  tenderly, 
the  ashes  it  contains  are  precious — -jar  it  not  rudely. 


90  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

There,  is  a  deal  coffin,  alone  on  a  rude  cart,  on  its 
way  to  the  Potter's  Field,  the  resting-place  of  the 
desolate.  Ask  you  who  goes  thus  solitary  to  a 
nameless  grave  ?  The  heartless  song  of  the  official 
that  sits  upon  his  coffin,  answers, 

"  Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones, 
He's  only  a  pauper  that  nobody  owns." 

The  spirits  that  once  breathed  in  these  human  An 
tipodes,  are  immortal.  They  have  gone  to  be  judged 
at  the  same  bar,  under  the  same  law,  and  to  stand 
side  by  side  in  the  presence  of  the  Judge,  who  looks 
straight  into  the  heart,  and  from  whose  vision 
nothing  can  be  hid.  What  a  lesson  is  here !  Take 
care,  oh!  rich  man,  look  to  it — that  the  despised 
pauper,  whose  dust  is  in  the  Potter's  Field,  is  not 
chosen  of  God,  while  you,  whose  ashes  are  beneath 
marble  that  is  inscribed  with  a  lying  epitaph,  are 
rejected. 

"  Whatever  moral  pestilence  he  dies  with,  he  takes  with  him. 
Whatever  poisoned  garment  he  has  on,  is  his  for  ever.  He  can 
ship  it  to  no  foreign  market,  and  if  he  cries  it  at  auction,  no 
man  will  buy." 

The  moral  leprosy  of  the  soul,  if  uncured  by  the 
" healing  Avaters,"  clings  to  it  throughout  eternity  ; 
stripped  as  it  may  be  of  physical  atoms,  the  plague 
spot  remains.  The  miser  who  barters  salvation  for 
treasure,  who  sells  Heaven  for  gold,  carries  with 
him  his  thirst  for  gain,  which  remains  raging  and 


THE  WATERS  OF  HEALTH.         91 

quenchless  for  ever.  The  debauchee  who  defied 
God,  and  scorned  the  restraints  of  His  law,  finds 
in  his  burning  lusts  the  hell  he  scoffed  at.  The 
murderer  looks  upon  his  spectre  hand,  and  sees 
upon  it  the  redness  of  the  blood  he  has  spilled. 
His  awakened  conscience,  as  he  wanders  an  impon 
derable  shadow  in  the  region  of  banished  souls,  is 
the  torment  of  his  eternity.  The  sin  that  is  unre- 
pented  of  is  a  fiery  and  hissing  serpent,  coiling 
around  the  soul  for  ever,  as  the  serpents  coiled 
around  and  crushed  the  Laocoon.  But  what  of 
that?  For  this  moral  pestilence,  there  is  a  cure. 
For  the  leprosy  of  the  soul,  there  is  a  healing  balm. 
The  blood-stains  may  be  washed  away,  and  the 
spirit  of  man  be  re-clothed  in  a  spotless  garment. 
A  voice  from  heaven  calls  to  the  leper  ;  speaking 
from  the  throne  of  God  to  the  pestilence  stricken,  it 
cries:  "Ho!  everyone  that  thirsteth,  come  ye  to 
the  waters ;  and  he  that  hath  no  money,  come  ye, 
buy  and  eat — buy  wine  and  milk,  without  money 
and  without  price."  In  these  waters  there  is  health. 
This  wine  and  milk  will  charm  away  the  pestilence, 
and  cleanse  from  the  mark  of  the  plague.  They 
are  free.  Wealth  cannot  purchase  them,  power 
cannot  grasp  them,  strength  cannot  control  them, 
kings  cannot  command  them.  The  earnest  soul 
that  asks  will  receive  them ;  the  earnest  seeker  will 
find  them.  They  are  at  the  door  of  the  penitent 
everywhere.  Poverty  is  no  bar,  weakness  no  pre 
vention,  obscurity  no  impediment  to  the  enjoyment 


92  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

of  them.  Strange,  then,  that  men  should  die  of 
moral  pestilence,  or  pass  into  eternity  with  a  poi 
soned  garment  wrapped  around  them.  That  they 
should  turn  away  from  the  healing  waters ;  that 
they  should  reject  the  wine  and  milk  so  freely 
offered ;  that  they  should  be  deaf  to  the  call«of  the 
helper,  to  the  ten  thousand  invitations  of  the  Good 
Physician,  urged  every  day  and  every  hour  of  a 
lifetime.  Man,  only,  can  be  guilty  of  such  madness 
and  folly. 

It  would  be  sad,  after  a  hard  day's  travel,  to  find  no  welcome, 
no  glad  face  to  meet  us,  no  news  of  home,  of  rest,  of  peace ;  no 
cheering  voice  to  hail  us  through  the  deepening  gloom,  "  All 
right  !  this  way,  mi/ friends — all  right.'" 

If  we  have  secured  seats  in  the  right  car,  and 
our  tickets  are  all  regular,  we  shall  find  a  welcome, 
we  shall  meet  glad  faces — we  will  find  a  home,  and 
rest,  and  peace.  When  the  night  comes,  a  cheering 
voice  will  hail  us,  through  the  deepening  gloom,  a 
kind  hand  will  guide  us  to  our  eternal  habitation. 
There  is  no  guess  work,  no  uncertainty  about  this ; 
it  is  all  fixed  as  the  purposes,  immutable  as  the 
promises  of  God.  But  we  must  see  to  it,  that  we 
take  the  right  train.  The  conductor  we  know.  His 
protection  is  sure.  He  will  not  deceive  or  forsake 
us.  What  he  promises  he  performs.  Have  no  ap 
prehension  about  that.  Lean  upon  Him,  trust  Him, 
follow  His  direction.  He  will  carry  us  safely  and 
surely  to  the  end  of  our  journey.  When  we  cross 
the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  He  will  be 
with  us.  We  shall  hear  his  pleasant  voice  as  time, 


MILE   POSTS   BY   THE  WAYSIDE.   93 

and  the  things  of  time,  the  world,  with  its  troubles 
and  its  sorrows,  pass  away,  welcoming  us  within 
the  gates  of  the  city  of  God.  There  we  shall  have 
a  place  of  rest,  where  weariness  can  never  come 
where  age  cannot  visit  us  with  its  infirmities ;  where 
death  cannot  rob  us  of  our  heart's  treasures.  Care 
and  sorrow  cannot  enter  there.  Tears  are  never 
shed  there.  Angels  will  be  around  us.  The  spirits 
of  the  loved  ones  that  preceded  us,  will  be  around 
us.  There  are  no  summer  heats  to  oppress,  no 
winters  cold  to  chill  us,  no  night  of  darkness,  no 
day  of  storms.  Calm,  and  quiet,  and  peace  reign 
forever  there.  Years  and  months,  the  seasons,  days 
and  hours,  are  all  unknown  there.  Forever  is  writ 
ten  upon  all  things. 

What  matter,  then,  how  soon  we  accomplish  our 
journey?  Nay,  if  we  are  in  the  right  car,  will  we 
not  cry  to  the  good  conductor,  "  Faster,  faster  still, 
press  on  the  steam,  wait  not  for  the  night  of  age, 
for  the  going  down  of  the  sun ;  land  us  safe  in  the 
great  city  at  noon,  or  even  in  the  morning  of  life  ?" 
Why  should  we  tarry  by  the  way  ?  Why  sigh  as 
we  pass  along,  and  the  beautiful  things  of  the  world 
fall  behind  us,  and  vanish  in  the  distance  ?  Things 
more  beautiful  await  us  at  the  end  of  our  journey. 
Why  start  we,  as  gray  hairs  whiten  our  heads,  the 
brow  becomes  wrinkled  with  age,  and  stiffness  takes 
hold  of  our  limbs,  and  the  steps  become  slow  ^nd 
careful?  These  are  but  the  mile-posts  that  stand 
by  the  wayside,  to  tell  us  that  our  weary  journey 
is  drawing  to  its  close. 


VJII. 


HOW    POKMS    LOOK    IN    PRINT. 


send  you,  sir,  to-day,  three  maidenly  court 
esies  and  a  poem.  The  courtesies  you  may  keep,  but 
the  poem  we  want  returned,  in  large  and  handsome 
type,  so  that  we  may  see  how  the  thing  looks  in 
proper  attire.  It  has  been  in  type  once,  some  years 
ago,  but  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  a  very  sorry 
appearance. 

We  all  want  copies  —  Snowdrop,  Honeysuckle, 
Powerful,  Mrs.  Margin  —  and  I  can't  tell  how  many 
distant  cousins  and  friends  ;  including  the  strong- 
minded  young  ladies,  who  have  not  yet  arrived. 
Send  therefore,  as  Col.  T.  used  to  say,  send  a  quan 
tity,  marked  u  Country,  —  care  of  Small  Bob,  Roaring 
River." 

Our  friends  being  about  to  return  to  their  home 
in  the  mountains,  we  desire  to  part  fair  :  and  as  a 
last  expression  suitable  for  a  time  of  good-byes,  we 
put  argument  aside,  and  join  hands  over  this  little 
poem.  Here  it  is  : 

As  the  rocks  in  mountain  rapids 

Become  islanded  with  ice, 
So  our  stony  hearts  surround  them 

With  the  rough,  hard  mail  of  vice. 


A    LITTLE     POEM.  95 

Then  we  say  it's  cold — though  summer 

Airs  float  round  us,  soft  and  warm  ; 
Then — though  skies  are  blue  and  cloudless — 

That  all  life  is  but  a  storm. 

Doubtless  :  and  the  special  wonder, 
Not  that  life  doth  craze  or  pall, — 
But,  this  Death  in  Life  while  under, 
How  or  why  we  live  at  all. 

If  no  finger  on  the  dial 

Of  this  world  points  how  to  live, 
It  were  well  to  make  the  trial 

What  the  next  may  chance  to  give. 

Haply  something  else  than  sadness, 

Want,  and  woe,  and  o'er  and  o'er 
Lust  and  crime,  and  Hell's  last  madness, 

Something  less,  or  something  more. 

Haply  some  bright  world  of  beauty, 

Peaceful,  glorious,  heavenly  fair, 
Where  dwell  only  God  and  His  angels  : — 

What, — oh  what  wouldst  thou  do  there  ? 

S  corner, — thou,  who  having  eyes 

And  ears,  art  yet  both  deaf  and  blind  ; 
Ever  to  whom,  doth  only  rise 
The  pictures  of  thy  own  dark  mind. 

If  the  world  is  bad,  improve  it ; 

Poor  and  suffering,  heal  and  give  ; 
Forget  not  there  is  one  above  it ; 

Seek  thou  that,  and  thou  shalt  live. 


96  COUNTRY   MARGINS 

But,  thou  weary  one,  who  bearest 
All  the  burden  of  the  day — 

Mock'd,  derided,  yet  forbearest, 
Holding  stoutly  on  thy  way  ; 

Ailing,  thirsting,  starving,  fettered, 
Dogged  at,  from  thy  very  birth, — 

Ah,  until  the  world  is  bettered, 
Thou  hast  but  one  friend  on  earth  ! 

But  that  Friend — oh,  wondrous  glory  ! 

Angels  and  archangels  bend, 
To  tell  the  worlds  the  matchless  story 

Of  the  love  of  this  thy  Friend. 

Ask,  and  trust  all  things  to  Him ; 

The  day,  however  long,  must  close ; 
Welcome  the  night,  or  dark,  or  dim, 

For  thou  shalt  find  repose. 

Yours, 


"  The  courtesies  you  may  keep,  but  the  poem  we  want  return, 
ed  in  large,  handsome  type,  so  that  we  may  see  how  the  thing 
looks  in  proper  attire." 

In  regard  to  the  "courtesies,"  we  can,  of  course, 
keep  them,  and  we  can  return  the  poem  in  the 
manner  indicated,  but  we  do  not  altogether  like  the 
manner  in  which  we  have  been  treated  in  this  mat 
ter.  When  we  started  with  our  friend  "  MARGINS," 
we  set  out  solely  with  a  view  of  having  a  little 
friendly  chat  with  him  by  the  way,  which  chat  we 
took  for  granted  would  be  held  in  honest  old-fash 
ioned  English  prose.  We  had  no  idea  that  we  were 


B  K  I  E  F  S     NOT     P  L  E  N  T  Y  .  97 

to  be  confounded  by  the  use  of  unknown  tongues, 
or  led  a  dance  through  the  mazes  of  poetry.  Time 
was  when  AYC  strung  rhymes,  and  thought  that  we 
were  Byronic  in  our  versification.  We  have  given 
up  that  idea  years  ago.  The  occasion  of  our  cut 
ting  the  society  of  the  muses  was  this : — We  had  a 
good  many  leisure  hours  on  hand  when  we  com 
menced  the  practice  of  the  law.  Briefs  were  not  as 
plenty  as  blackberries  with  us,  and  we  undertook 
to  fill  up  the  time  between  them  by  literary  efforts. 
We  resided  in  a  flourishing  village  then,  which  re 
joiced  in  a  newspaper  published  weekly.  Through 
the  columns  of  that  paper  we  poured  our  effusions 
for  the  benefit  of  the  reading  world,  securely  hid 
as  we  supposed,  behind  a  nom  de  plume  selected 
from  the  most  celebrated  names  of  the  olden  times. 
But  this  is  an  envious  world.  It  cannot  bear  to  see 
merit  working  its  way  upward.  Genius  will  be 
hawked  at,  and  if  possible  brought  down  to  the 
level  of  plodding  humanity.  It  was  so  with  us.  A 
very  particular  friend  of  ours  undertook  to  criticise 
our  poetry.  And  he  cut,  and  slashed,  and  belabor 
ed,  and  ridiculed  our  effusions  and  ourself  in  a  man 
ner  in  no  way  pleasant  to  the  feelings  of  a  very  vain 
young  man.  The  worst  of  it  was,  his  criticisms 
were,  in  the  main,  just.  He  succeeded  in  satisfying 
the  world,  so  far  *as  our  poetry  and  his  criticisms 
were  read  by  it,  that  we  would  never  become  im 
mortal  in  that  line.  What  may  be  regarded  as  still 
more  singular,  he  satisfied  us  of  the  same  fact.  We 


08  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

cut  the  muses,  and  for  twenty  odd  years  have  not, 
save  on  two  or  three  occasions,  undertaken  rhyme. 
Some  three  or  four  years  ago,  we  listened  to  GOUGH, 
the  celebrated  and  eloquent  temperance  lecturer. 
As  one  of  the  causes  which  induced  habits  of  intem 
perance,  he  spoke  of  the  convivial  suppers  some 
times  indulged  in  by  young  men — feasts  where  the 
wine  flowed  freely,  and  the  song,  the  story,  and  the 
merry  jest  accompanied  the  circulation  of  the  bottle. 
He  said  he  never  saw  or  heard  of  these  convivial 
feasts  without  imagining  that  they  were  got  up  by 
the  "  gentleman  in  black  "  for  the  purpose  of  en 
snaring  victims,  and  that  he  always  thought  he 
could  hear  his  demon  laugh  above  the  bacchanalian 
revelry,  and  see  the  print  of  his  hoof  among  the 
broken  glass  upon  the  floor.  Indeed,  he  said  he  al 
ways  regarded  them  as  dinners  given  by  Satan  to 
his  followers,  to  confirm  them  in  his  service,  and  he 
could,  at  such  times,  almost  see  him  sitting  with  his 
horned  head,  dragon  tail,  and  cloven  hoofj  at  the 
table,  encouraging  the  revellers  in  debauchery. 
From  that  lecture,  we  returned  to  our  office,  and 
indited  the  following.  We  had  never  any  idea  of  its 
publication,  and  it  would  not  have  been  given  for 
the  edification  of  the  world  now,  had  not  our  friend 
11  MARGINS  "  cornered  us  by  his  effusion.  On  him, 
therefore,  rests  the  responsibility. 


THE  GENTLEMAN   IN  BLACK.      99 


FEAST   OF   THE  "GENTLEMAN  IN  BLACK.' 

"  THE  man  in  black"  made  a  feast  one  day, 

A  dinner  for  all  his  friends, 
And  he  sauntered  about  to  invite  them  out 
To  taste  of  his  dainties,  and  dance  at  his  rout, 
And  stuff  themselves  with  tender  regoutte  ; 

For,  says  he,  "  the  devil's  to  pay." 

He  got  him  a  priest  to  preside  at  his  board, 
And  he  grinned  when  he  sat  him  down, 

For  I  ween,  says  the  devil,  a  whining  priest 

That  sins  with  a  sanctified  look,  at  a  feast 

Is  entitled  to  precedence  over  the  rest, 
So  I'll  honor  the  cowl  and  gown. 

And  he  got  him  a  lawyer  to  sit  at  the  foot, 

A  jolly  old  fellow  too, 

Who  had  plundered  the  widow,vand  spoiled  the  poor, 
And  spurned  the  orphan  away  from  his  door, 
And  cheated  by  statute  and  plead,  and  swore 

As  cunning  old  lawyers  do. 


Then  he  got  him  a  usurer  plump  and  fat, 

A  sleek  old  cent  per  cent, 
Who  cut  with  a  razor  so  sharp  and  keen, 
That  few  who  fell  into  his  hands,  I  ween, 
Were  suffered  to  pass  till  he'd  shaved  them  clean, 

Tho'  demure  as  any  cat. 


100  COUNTRY    MAR  (j  i  N  * . 

Then  the  "  black  raau"  got  him  a  merchant  too, 
Who  sold  by  the  shortened  yard  ; 

Who  kept  his  accounts  in  a  way  of  his  own — 

When  he  sold  two  ounces  he  sat  three  down  ; 

And  charged  two  shillings  as  half  a  crown, 
And  proved  by  his  clerk  'twas  true. 

Then  he  got  him  a  doctor,  a  queer  old  quack, 

With  his  saddle-bags  by  his  side, 
Who  physicked  and  sweated,  without  remorse, 
Every  living  thing,  from  a  man  to  a  horse, 
And  blistered,  and  bled,  and  tortured  them  worse 

Thau  the  disease  of  which  they  died. 

He  filled  up  his  table  with  others,  I  ween, 

Of  right  good  families  old, — 
For  the  Devil  is  proud,  and  a  common  knave  ; 
Who  cheated  by  retail  he  would  not  have, 
And  the  sight  of  a  pickpocket  made  him  grave, 

So  he  tipped  him  the  shoulder  cold. 

The  guests  were  seated,  the  board  was  spread 

With  luxuries  rich  and  rare  ; 
Each  guest  had  a  dish  that  suited  himself 
Reserved  in  the  care  of  a  dingy  elf; 
As  a  dessert  (the  host  had  spared  no  pelf 

In  procuring  a  dainty  fare.) 

The  guests  were  merry,  they  quaffed  their  wine, 

Eight  merry  were  they  that  night, 
They  cracked  their  jokes,  and  laughed  and  sung, 
And  huzzaed,  and  roared  till  the  arches  rung, 
And  jests  obscene  were  on  each  tongue ; 
They,  in  fact,  were  a  little  "  tight." 


THE  GENTLEMAN   IN   BLACK.    101 

The  night,  oh !  it  glided  right  merrily  on, 

And  no  one  took  note  of  time ; 
And  the  old  clock  bell,  in  the  old  gray  tower, 
He  hammered  the  peals  of  the  midnight  hour, 
But  the  guests  were  too  merry,  they  had  no  power 

To  list  to  the  solemn  chime. 

The  host  he  rose  from  his  iron  chair, 

And  he  called  for  his  burning  bowl, 
And  he  brought  the  table  a  terrible  whack, 
That  startled  the  priest,  and  alarmed  the  quack, 
And  took  e'en  the  lawyer  a  little  aback, 

When  he  thought  of  that  thing — the  soul. 

He  bowed  to  the  chair,  and  he  filled  the  cup 

With  right  good  liquor,  I  ween  ; 
That  sparkled  and  flashed  with  gases  old  ; 
That  was  meet  to  be  quaffed  by  sinners  bold, 
Or  the  burly  lips  of  the  knights  of  old — 

Oh,  that  host  he  had  glorious  wine ! 

"  A  health!"  quoth  the  host,  " here's  a  health  to  all ! 

Ye  have  served  me  well  and  true  : 
Ye  have  furnished  my  palace  and  filled  my  ranks 
With  souls  seduced  by  your  merry  pranks  ; 
Ye  have  labored  so  well  that  the  meed  of  thanks 

Is  due  from  your  prince  to  you. 

"  I  have  traversed  the  earth  from  pole  to  pole, 

I  have  wandered  from  sea  to  sea  : 
And  the  world  is  full  of  my  followers  now, 
Whom  you  've  taught  to  sin,  ye  well  know  how : 
And  one  and  all  at  my  feet  to  bow — 

On  earth  there  is  none  like  me ! 


102  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

"  Ye  have  finished  your  task.    Your  work  is  done, 

And  need  ye  should  take  your  rest. 
Ye  will  speed  with  me  to  my  murky  home, 
Where  the  rich  flames  flash  round  my  burning  dome, 
And  our  demon  orgies,  'mid  smoke  and  gloom, 

Have  a  richer  and  rarer  zest." 


Then  he  winked  to  his  imps,  and  he  flourished  his  tail, 

And  he  stamped  with  his  iron  hoof, 
And  the  guests  were  grappled  and  hurled  along, 
And  the  merry  jest,  and  the  shout  and  song 
Were  followed  by  shrieking  loud  and  long, 

As  they  tore  through  the  riven  roof. 

There  was  wonder  on  earth  when  the  morning  broke, 
And  the  lawyer,  and  priest,  and  quack, 

And  the  merchant  and  guests  that  feasted  there, 

Were  sought  for  carefully  everywhere, 

By  many  a  longing,  anxious  heir, 
But  none  of  them  e'er  came  back. 


That  feast  was  held  in  a  ruined  church, 

That  stood  in  a  lonely  dell, 
That  had  battled  with  time  and  slow  decay, 
And  the  ivy  had  crept,  in  its  loving  way, 
O'er  its  mossy  towers  and  walls  of  gray — 

Oh !  a  ruin  it  loves  right  well. 

The  ivy  was  scorched,  and  its  leaves  were  black, 

As  if  fire  had  revelled  there  : 
And  the  wandering  peasant  often  spoke 
Of  a  sulphur  stench  and  a  murky  smoke, 
That  hung  o'er  the  ruin  when  morning  broke — 

And  then  floated  away  on  the  air. 


IX. 

ISOLATION. 

SLEEP,  oh,  beautiful  sleep,  if  thou  wert  an  angel, 
I  would  kneel  down  here  and  thank  thee  for  this 
hour  of  cool  repose. 

So  I  said  or  thought  this  afternoon  after  waking 
from  dreams  and  refreshment  on  the  parlor  sofa. 
I  had  wandered  home  latish  in  the  day,  to  find  the 
house  closed  and  desolate.  All  gone !  all  but  my 
father,  and  he  asleep  in  his  room — all  gone.  Of 
course  they  were.  I  had  just  been  to  see  them  off. 

"Well,  as  you  say,  what  of  that  ?  Why,  my  ex 
cellent  Editor,  you  may  say  "what  of  that?"  as 
much  as  you  please,  but  this  crawling  into  your 
own  house,  by  the  well-door  or  a  back  cellar  window, 
is  a  dismal  piece  of  business.  Rooms  empty  and 
dark,  and  with  that  cold  smell,  into  which  you  go 
sneezing,  and  stepping  carefully  about  like  a  cat, 
and  the  servants  so  quiet  and  low-toned  as  though 
it  were  Sunday  again.  Oh,  would  it  were  Sunday 
— the  day  of  days,  the  glory  of  the  week — the  key 
stone  of  the  arch. 

Ugh !  throw  open  the  windows  and  give  us  light, 
light!  LIGHT! 


104  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

Ah,  sir,  I  don't  ask  for  Sunday.  I  am  not  in  the 
mood  for  it.  No,  nor  for  any  day.  What  can  I 
do  with  this  solemn  circumstantiality,  this  inevitable 
proceeding,  this  right  foot  foremost  forever?  Give 
me  rather  (if  I  may  choose),  some  cast-off  fragment^ 
some  rough  piece  of  chaos,  not  yet  fashioned  into 
any  respectable  day-time,  so  it  be  other  than  this 
bright,  glittering,  mocking  Monday  afternoon,  which 
finds  my  house  desolate,  as  I  have  said,  and  my 
very  particular  friend  full  of  travel,  and  talk,  and 
laughter,  a  hundred  miles  away !  To  go  away  as 
I  did,  so  vive  and  elate,  and  come  back  drooping 
and  wiltercd  to  be  as  a  cheese-paring  in  the  face  of 
this  dazzling  sunshine !  Thunders  and  red  light 
nings  ;  it  seems  to  me  I  should  like,  but  this  white 
light,  this  breezy  Monday  I  don't  like,  and  there's 
no  use  in  talking  about  it. 

Such  was  the  perverse  mood,  sir,  which  sleep  has 
charmed  away. 

For  we  have  had  pleasant  days,  though  they  are 
gone;  genial  days,  and  nights  all-glorious.  Sun 
rises  and  sunsets,  painted  with  the  hues  and  tones 
of  the  first  day.  Day-dreams  and  night-dreams, 
glad  faces,  and  hearts  more  glad,  and  disquisitions, 
and  argumentations  solid  as  the  primeval  granite. 
All  gone  now,  but  not  lost — thank  God  for  that — 
not  lost,  but  a  part  of  our  being,  and  forever. 

Backward,  looking  into  these  few  past  weeks, 
my  eye  drops  upon  many  pleasant  pictures,  and  as 
the  artists  say,  studies,  of  a  tempting  character ;  and 


PLEASANT   SUMMER  PICTURES.  105 

so  looking,  I  behold  on  one  of  those  most  solstitial 
days,  two  men,  strangers  to  me,  who  were  walking 
up  our  yard,  doubtless  seeking  for  what  might  hap 
pen  to  turn  up.  One  was  stoutish,  and  as  you  may 
say,  established  in  all  his  ways ;  the  other  jaunty  in 
both  look  and  carriage,  black  hair,  if  I  remember 
aright,  with  a  twist  in  it,  and  a  decided  cock  to  his 
hat.  The  idea,  as  it  recurs  in  my  mind  (for  it  is  all 
dream-like  now,  in  the  distance),  the  memory  is,  that 
after  shaking  myself  a  little  to  make  sure  that  I  was 
awake,  I  showed  those  gentlemen  into  our  parlor, 
just  about  sunset,  while  a  smart  crack  of  thunder 
was  waking  up  all  our  northern  sky,  and  that  soon 
after  we  all  took  tea  and  compared  notes  somewhat, 
as  was  proper  to  men  of  high  consideration.  My 
people,  as  I  remember  it,  were  in  white,  (my  wife, 
certainly,)  and  all  was  cordial  and  serene.  Doubt 
less  there  was  laughing,  and  blushing,  and  pell-mell 
talking,  and  a  handsome  confusion  of  exchange  and 
interchange,  but  the  picture,  as  aforesaid,  was  in  its 
general  tone  cordial  and  serene.  But  it  was  all  like 
a  panorama ;  for  my  new  friends  straightway  lighted 
cigars  and  departed  over  Roaring  Bher,  and  soon 
after,  were  wheeling  away  swiftly  into  the  south. 
This  is  one  of  the  pleasant  summer  pictures  in  our 
gallery,  and  if  you,  Mr.  Editor,  ever  meet  such  stout 
man  with  a  Webster-like  build  of  face  and  figure, 
and  that  other  individual,  with  a  twist  in  his  black 
hair,  and  hat  at  an  angle — I  say,  sir — give  them 
my  regards. 

5 


106  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

Reminiscences  are  pleasant,  but  facts  remain. 
You  have  pictures,  but  u  it  is  not  good  for  man  to 
be  alone."  If  a  man  withdraws  from  the  world,  and 
still  lives  a  high,  pure  life,  it  is  not  because  he  is 
alone,  it  is  because  he  is  not  alone.  He  is  living  with 
God.  He  is  in  a  Presence,  to  which  the  coming  in 
of  whatever  hosts  on  earth,  or  in  heaven,  add  and 
detract  nothing.  But  this  is  not  isolation. 

And  a  child,  scarcely  as  yet  conscious  of  this  Pres 
ence,  save  in  a  remote  way  (as  when  with  closed 
eyes,  we  feel,  but  do  not  see  the  light),  will  while 
away  hour  after  hour  with  something  of  His  handi 
work — a  streak  of  sunlight,  or  a  pebble,  or  a  flower. 
Put  it  out  in  the  grass,  under  a  rose-bush,  and  see 
the  thing  wonder  and  philosophize,  and  laugh,  all 
alone  (?)  to  itself.  Not  much  talking  at  this  time, 
but  what  grave  exclamations,  what  wise  points  of  ad 
miration,  what  profound  and  questioning  looks  over 
a  leaf,  or  a  blade  of  grass !  A  year  or  two  later, 
put  this  curious  thing  out  there  again,  and  it  begins 
to  combine  and  arrange.  The  pebble,  and  the  grass, 
and  the  flower,  are  worn  out.  They  have  talked 
everything  up  for  the  present,  and  now  it  says,  let 
us  prepare  for  war,  or,  if  of  the  gentler  sex,  for  a  tea- 
party  !  In  either  case,  it  is  not  alone — far  from  it ; 
nor  unhappy — far  from  it ;  it  is  just  one  bubble  of 
enjoyment.  But  if  you  want  to  hear  its  reserve 
force,  in  full  Bedlam  exhibition,  just  put  it  in  a  dark 
closet  alone. 

I  never  saw  but  one  child  that  I  thought  would 


THE   YOUNG  INDIAN.  107 

bear  that  quietly.  It  was  a  papoose  from  the  Florida 
everglades.  Col.  Harney  had  been  exploring  those 
recesses,  shooting  and  hanging  the  Indians  never 
before  disturbed  in  those  retreats,  and  on  one.  of  the 
little  grassy  islands,  that  are  scattered  about  in  those 
clear  waters,  this  youngster  was  found,  after  a  fight, 
and  brought  up  a  prisoner  of  war,  to  St.  Augustine. 
He  was  the  gravest  piece  of  humanity  that  I  ever 
beheld.  A  week  before,  it  is  safe  to  say,  he  had 
never  seen  a  white  man,  or  any  of  his  novelties. 
Yery  likely  all  that  he  had  seen  of  the  world  was 
that  one  island,  with  the  bright  water  running  up 
and  away  from  its  shores.  Always  there  day  and 
night,  running  up  and  away  again ;  always  clear  and 
bright  and  sweet  to  the  taste.  This,  and  the  high  grass 
waving  far  away  into  the  distance,  overtopped  here 
and  there  by  a  palm,  was  all  the  world  to  him.  There, 
perhaps,  he  had  heard  of  the  Great  Spirit,  whose  are 
all  the  islands  and  the  waters,  and  the  red  men  and 
white  men;  and  who  has  said,  u  vengeance  is  mine ;  I 
will  repay."  There  his  mother  had  crooned  wild  songs 
over  the  little  red  face,  and  his  father  had  tumbled 
him  in  the  grass  and  taught  him  the  war-whoop. 
He  didn't  want  any  other  father  or  mother.  They 
were  good  enough  for  him.  They  were  gone  now, 
and  here  was  everything  new  and  strange.  Houses, 
streets,  faces,  language,  all  new,  all  strange.  But 
nothing  surprised  him,  nothing  moved  him,  nothing 
would  make  him  laugh,  and  certainly  if  his  face  told 
a  true  story,  there  was  nothing  to  make  him  fear. 


108  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

His  keen  black  eyes  were  constantly  busy  noting  this 
thing  and  that,  but  in  such  a  blank,  sad  way,  sad, 
not  from  its  intensity,  but  from  its  want  of  all  feel 
ing,  as  though  he  saw  nothing  to  his  liking.  Very 
nice,  very  fastidious  was  he,  that  nothing  would  suit 
his  particular  humor.  Whether,  in  fact,  this  cool, 
blank  look,  was  that  of  ignorance  and  stupidity,  I 
know  not;  or  whether  he  saw  continually  before 
him  a  picture  of  his  father  dangling  from  the  fig-tree 
on  his  little  island  home  in  the  everglades.  Ilang- 
ing  there  all  day  in  the  bright  sunlight,  but  so  still 
and  speechless.  Hanging  there  all  night,  staring 
with  dead  wide-open  eyes,  at  the  white  moon  and  the 
stars ! 

In  any  case,  that  boy  seemed  to  me  quite  alone  in 
the  world. 

But  isolation,  literal  and  absolute,  would  proba 
bly  be  death ;  and  not  merely  death  of  the  body, 
but  annihilation  of  all  being.  There  are  lonely 
beings  now  in  the  world,  thousands  and  tens  of 
thousands,  who,  without  leadings  of  thought  and 
hope  from  the  cloud  of  witnesses  about  them,  or 
from  the  felt  presence  of  God  himself,  would  sink 
at  once  into  nothingness, — burn  out  like  a  candle, 
body  and  soul.  And  there  are  others  of  us, — God 
help  us  all, — still  more  lonely  and  desolate,  seeking 
always  for  this  same  isolation,  as  though  in  that  was 
the  very  joy  of  life.  Chalk-marking  and  laying  out 
the  bounds,  saying,  "That's  mine, — take  care!  don't 
step  over  there,  you  are  on  my  premises,"  and  so  in 


No  MAN   HIS   OWN  MASTER.     109 

a  general  way  crying  out  "Scat"  and  "  Wheel"  to 
everything  about.  The  great  fact  being  all  the  time 
(as  we  get  to  know  some  day,  or  die  as  the  fool 
dieth)  that  man  unassisted,  or  independent,  as  we 
say,  is  but  small  comfort  to  himself.  And  this, 
because  he  feels  that  he  is  with  a  stranger ;  a  being 
with  whom,  as  yet,  he  has  scarcely  more  than  a 
nodding  acquaintance ;  one  who,  for  aught  he  knows, 
may  yet  turn  out  a  robber  and  a  cut-throat. 

Am  I  exaggerating?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Every 
man  of  thought  knows  this.  He  bears  his  own  bur 
den  ;  he  carries  his  own  secret  with  him.  If  he  looks 
within,  it  is  not  his  whole  being  at  which  he  looks, 
for  he  can  see  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  and  he  is 
manifold  in  make — E  Pluribus  Unum — a  sort  of 
United  States  of  being — wheels  within  wheels — a 
strange  mechanism,  the  motive  power  of  which  is 
all  in  double  darkness — an  infernal  machine,  which 
may  blow  him  up,  he  knows  not  how  soon.  No 
man  feels  that  he  is  his  own  master.  He  cannot . 
wholly  guide  his  own  being.  Any  one  who  imagines 
that  he  has  any  power  of  his  own  over  his  nature, 
has  fooled  himself  to  believe  a  lie.  It  is  his  nature 
that  guides,  and  has  power  over,  him.  It  sways 
about  with  him  this  way  and  that,  and  it  never  rests 
for  one  solitary  moment  of  time.  It  is  like  a  star, 
whose  glimmer  is  unceasing.  You  can  never  look 
it  in  the  face,  for  it  never  will  be  still,  for  you  to 
do  it.  While  you  look  for  it  here,  presto,  it  is  there. 
While  you  fancy  you  are  having  a  fair  t&e-d-tete, 


110  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

behold  it  is  in  California  or  the  South  Seas.  While 
you  are  bending  over  it  microscopically,  it  has 
gone  six  times  around  the  world,  and  is  back  again 
fresh  as  eCer.  Lively,  pert,  inquisitive,  joyous  at 
times,  and  mourning  at  times,  and  at  other  times 
puffed  with  such  impudence  and  deviltry,  as  hell 
itself  must  feed,  to  give  it  such  an  air  of  royalty  and 
dominion.  There  is  no  peace  with  this  strange 
composition,  till  a  man  seeks  his  Maker,  and  asks 
for  power  over  himself,  day  by  day,  and  night  by 
night,  and  hour  by  hour,  until  he  may  escape  from 
this  wild  existence  into  something  pure  and  rational. 

And  this  something  pure  and  rational — this  life, 
as  distinguished  from  death — what  is  it  ?  It  is  not 
motion,  as  we  have  said,  or  momentum.  Nor  is  it 
isolation,  or  inertia,  or  repose  in  the  sense  of  rest. 
It  is  (as  far  as  we  may  guess)  action,  needing  no 
repose.  It  is  health  after  disease,  sanity  after  inci 
pient  madness !  It  is  thought,  fluent  and  burning 
as  a  star,  high  above  day  and  night,  and  change. 
It  is  self-possession  and  strength.  It  is  a  part  of  the 
glory  of  God.  It  is  crowned.  It  is  triumphant. 
It  is  a  living  Hallelujah.  It  is  wisdom,  and  know 
ledge,  and  power;  and  its  utterance — the  loftiest 
speech  given  to  men  or  angels, — "  Glory  be  to  God 
in  the  highest !  Amen  and  amen  /" 

And  doubtless  this  life  must  be  begun  here,  if 
begun  at  all ;  must  be  entered  upon,  if  at  all,  here, 
in  this  bustling  and  changing  world,  amid  eating, 
and  drinking,  and  working,  and  dreaming,  and  strife, 


SLEEP,   BEAUTIFUL   SLEEP!    Ill 

and  trouble,  and  pain,  and  whatever  apparent  con 
fusion  confounded — "  for  there  is  no  work,  nor  de 
vice,  nor  knowledge,  nor  wisdom,  in  the  grave ;' 
and  life,  in  its  essential  elements,  is  the.  same  in  all 
places  and  at  all  times,  and,  like  God  himself,  is 
unchangeable  and  everlasting. 

Good-night,  sir.  "We  have  had  a  long,  lonely  talk. 
1  will  go  up,  now,  and  seek  for  more  of  that  sweet 
oblivion  which  I  found  this  afternoon,  on  the  parlor- 
sofa.  Good-night. 

Yours,         . 


Sleep !  oh !  beautiful  sleep,  if  thou  wert  an  angel,  I  would 
kneel  down  here  and  worship  thee  for  this  hour  of  cool  repose. 

We  worship  no  such  divinity  as  sleep,  angel,  or 
no  angel.  We  are  against  sleep  as  an  active  prin 
ciple,  an  entity.  We  look  upon  it  as  a  necessity, 
enforced,  thrust  upon  the  world ;  a  thing  to  be  en 
dured  with  resignation,  rather  than  worshipped  as 
a  God.  Sleep,  indeed !  Will  anybody  tell  us  what 
good,  what  pleasurable  thing,  what  positive  emotion, 
there  can  be  in  dull  Oblivion — in  lying  down  with 
closed  eyes,  the  mind  a  blank,  and  the  physical  man 
utterly  prostrate  and  powerless  ?  Have  you  a  purse  ? 
A  thief  can  steal  it.  Have  you  a  house?  The 
incendiary  may  burn  it  over  you.  Have  you  an 
enemy  ?  He  may  cut  your  throat,  and  this  same 
divinity,  sleep,  say  no  word  against  it.  Mark,  we 
don't  deny  the  recuperative  power  of  sleep — rwe 


112  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

confess  its  utility.  When  we  are  weary,  sleep  is  a 
good  thing,  a  very  pleasant  thing.  But  it  is  all 
negative,  only  an  absence  of  weariness,  a  cessation 
of  pain — nothing  more.  And  as  well  might  a  hun 
gry  man  worship  a  leg  of  mutton  or  a  rump  steak, 
because  eating  it  will  allay  his  hunger. 

But  to  sleep !  to  dream !  Very  pleasant  things, 
are  dreams,  we  admit,  sometimes — not  always.  We 
can't  choose  our  dreams.  They  come  unbidden, 
and  are  the  subjects  of  no  volition  of  our  own; 
shadows  all,  they  come  and  go,  and  leave  no  trace, 
no  footprint  on  the  sand,  no  mark  on  the  wall.  We 
rather  like  dreams — they  are  racy;  they  have  no 
affinities  with  the  sober  experience,  the  hard  realities 
of  life.  Natural  laws  are  nothing  to  the  dreamer. 
He  laughs  at,  he  spurns  their  control,  and  glancing 
above  them,  revels  in  impossibilities.  The  birds 
talk  with  him.  Dumb  animals  converse  with  him. 
Even  the  trees  bend  their  tall  heads,  and  while  their 
leaves  are  playing  with  the  summer  winds,  open 
their  queer  mouths  and  speak  to  him.  We  had  a 
dream  once  :  we  have  had  many  ;  but  this  was  im 
pressive,  peculiar,  and  left  its  strange  transitions 
firmly  fixed  in  our  memory. 

It  was  three  years  ago.  AVe  were  out  in  the 
woods  with  a  guide,  sleeping  in  a  shanty  built  by 
ourselves  on  the  banks  of  the  St.  Regis  Lake,  one  of 
those  beautiful  little  sheets  of  water  lying  all  alone 
in  the  forest  away  up  north.  Our  shanty  was  built 
in  this  wise :  In  front  of  the  gigantic  trunk  of  a 


BROOK-TROUT  AND  DREAMS.    113 

fallen  tree,  and  at  some  eight  feet  distance  from  it, 
and  as  many  feet  from  each  other,  we  placed  two 
forked  posts.  Across  these  we  laid  a  pole,  and  from 
each  another  pole,  to  the  great  log.  Others  still 
were  laid  parallel  with  these  as  rafters,  and  over  all 
was  spread  bark  peeled  from  the  trees  around.  The 
sides  were  built  up  with  boughs,  in  order  to  keep  off 
the  lateral  dampness.  The  frorit  was  open,  and  di 
rectly  before  the  o?oor,  which,  by  the  way,  was  the 
whole  broadside  of  our  dwelling,  was  a  smudge,  or 
fire  built  to  keep  the  musquitoes  and  black  flies 
from  devouring  us.  Our  bed  was  of  green  boughs. 
We  had  travelled  far  that  day,  and  were  hungry 
and  weary  when  we  reached  the  lake.  My  guide 
built  the  shanty  while  I  caught  a  string  of  brook- 
trout,  in  a  little  stream  that  came  laughing  and 
scolding  from  the  hills  to  lose  itself  in  the  waters  of 
the  lake.  These,  with  a  steak  from  a  deer  we  had 
killed,  afforded  us  a  hearty  supper,  and  we  ate 
as  hungry  men  in  the  forest  are  apt  to  do.  As  the 
darkness  closed  in  upon  the  world,  and  while  the 
stars  were  coming  out  one  after  another  to  hold 
their  watch  in  the  sky,  we  laid  ourselves  down  on 
our  bed  of  boughs  to  sleep.  The  solemn  night 
voices  were  all  around  us ;  and  weary  from  travel 
and  lethargic  from  a  wildwood  feast,  we  soon  passed 
into  slumber. 

As  we  slept  upon  that  bed  of  boughs  that  night, 
strange  visions  passed  before  us.    "We  were  away  in 
a  new  world,  and  yet  all  that  we  saw  was  familiar, 
" 


114  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

nothing  seemed  strange  to  us  ;  we  were  among 
beings  that  we  seemed  to  know  ;  not  men  and  wo 
men,  but  rather  the  spirits  of  men  and  women  ;  not 
as  of  those  who  had  died,  and  whose  bodies  were 
mouldering  in  the  grave — they  had  form,  but  not 
substance ;  shadows  that  moved  and  spoke ;  that 
seemed  formed  after  the  similitude  of  men  and  wo 
men,  but  through  whose  forms  the  sunlight  passed. 
"We  possessed  all  the  attributes  of  humanity,  save  a 
real,  tangible  body.  Hands,  and  limbs,  and  body, 
we  seemed  to  possess,  palpable  to  the  vision,  but  not 
to  the  touch.  Hunger,  and  cold,  and  heat,  and 
pain,  were  things  that  seemed  to  us  unknown. 
Space  and  time  were  as  nothing.  "We  passed  at 
once  without  effort,  like  thought,  from  place  to 
place.  We  think  of  scenes  far  distant  from  us — 
memory  calls  up  the  stream,  the  lake,  the  meadow, 
the  great  trees,  the  cottage,  and  the  garden  ;  we  say 
thought  wanders  away  to  such  scenes.  Well,  this 
seemed  to  be  with  us  a  reality.  If  we  thought  of  a 
scene,  a  locality,  hundreds  or  thousands  of  miles 
away,  at  once  we  were  there. 

We  thought  of  Rome,  of  the  great  St.  Peter's,  and 
there  we  stood,  beneath  that  gigantic  temple.  We 
thought  of  the  pyramids,  and  stood  at  their  base, 
and  talked  familiar  with  the  mummies  that  slept 
within  those  granite  piles.  We  thought  of  Water 
loo,  and  there  we  stood  surveying  that  mighty  con 
flict.  We  saw  legions  of  men  hurled  against  le 
gions  of  men.  We  heard  the  roar  of  the  cannon, 


A  FOREST  DREAM.  115 

and  the  rattle  of  musketry.  We  saw  the  smoke  of 
battle  wreathing  up  from  blazing  battalions.  We 
saw  the  flashing  of  swords,  as  vast  squadrons  of 
horsemen  mowed  down  the  flying  foe.  We  heard 
the  groans  of  the  wounded,  and  the  wild  shrieks  of 
the  dying.  We  passed  unharmed  through  the  con 
flicting  hosts,  looking  upon  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
Wherever  we  chose  to  be,  at  once  we  were  there. 
How  we  passed  we  know  not — the  fact  alone  we  re 
member.  As  our  body  was  intangible,  it  was  un 
affected  by  the  elements.  Fire  would  not  burn  it, 
water  would  not  drown  it.  We  could  walk  on  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean  with  a  thousand  fathom  of 
water  above  us.  We  could  plunge  into  the  volcano's 
seething  cauldron.  Kocks  would  not  crush  us,  and 
precipices,  down  which  we  plunged,  were  harmless 
as  the  level  plain.  Such  a  being  were  we,  and  such 
were  those  around  us.  Shadows,  mere  intellectual 
ities  existing  palpably  to  the  vision,  having  form 
and  comeliness,  but  unfettered  and  unconfmed  by  a 
fleshly  body.  Of  such  a  body,  it  seemed  to  us,  we 
had  never  heard,  save  in  the  wild  theories  of  some 
metaphysical  dreamer.  Its  existence  was  a  subject 
of  derision,  and  those  who  upheld  its  reality  were 
regarded  as  idle  visionaries,  nay,  as  profane  reject 
ers  of  philosophical  truths. 

"  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  our  dream." 

We  were  away  in  the  midst  of  the  broad  prairies 
of  the  West.    They  lay  there  as  they  came  from  the 


116  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

Creator's  hand.  The  eye  of  civilization  had  never 
before  looked  upon  them,  and  no  civilized  man  had 
set  his  foot  upon  the  green  grass  that  vegetated 
upon  their  bosom.  All  around  us  were  vast  plains-, 
treeless  and  shrubless  as  a  shorn  meadow.  Away 
off,  on  the  one  hand,  hanging  like  a  blue  dim  sha 
dow  upon  the  horizon,  was  a  belt  that  we  knew  to 
be  timber ;  while,  on  the  other,  on  the  very  outside 
boundary  of  vision,  loomed  up  the  gigantic  peaks  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  moveless  and  fixed,  like  sen 
tinels  of  God,  watching  the  boundless  plains  be 
neath  them.  The  tall  grass  waved  like  vast  fields 
of  grain  in  the  summer  winds ;  rich  flowers  of  the 
most  gorgeous  hues  sent  their  wild  fragrance 
abroad  on  the  air,  charming  the  vision  by  their 
glory,  and  entrancing  the  senses  by  their  sweetness. 
In  all  this  vast  plain  we  saw  no  living  thing.  All 
around  us  was  silence ;  vegetation  alone  seemed  to 
live  there — and  that  grew  and  flourished  in  rich 
est  and  wildest  luxuriance.  It  was  like  a  vast  gar 
den,  planted  and  nourished  by  the  hand  of  nature, 
unaided,  as  it  was  unchecked,  by  the  ingenuity  or 
the  industry  of  man.  Suddenly  a  blight  seemed  to 
pass  over  that  vast  plain ;  the  flowers  faded  ;  the  tall 
grass  shrivelled  and  died ;  the  leaves  on  the  rank 
weeds  rolled  together,  and  were  blown  away  by  hot 
winds  that  swept  over  that  ocean  of  land ;  vegeta 
tion  withered  into  a  gray  and  sapless  mass,  standing 
where  it  grew  ;  the  streams,  that  were  wont  to 
move  in  sluggish  and  tortuous  windings,  were  dried 


CAPRICES  OF  A  DREAM.         117 

up,  leaving  channels  like  the  trails  of  gigantic  ser 
pents  ;  the  blight  of  drought  was  upon  all  nature 
about  us. 

As  we  stood  wrapped  in  contemplation  of  the  im 
mensity  around  us,  a  dull  heavy  sound  fell  upon 
our  ear,  like  the  rumbling  of  a  thousand  carriages 
over  the  rough  pavement  of  a  far-off  city.  Turning 
in  the  direction  whence  the  sound  seemed  to  come, 
we  saw  in  the  distance  vast  herds  of  deer  and  ante 
lopes,  flying  at  wild  speed  towards  the  spot  where 
we  stood.  Behind  these  came  an  army  of  elks ; 
their  stately  horns,  glancing  and  waving  in  the  sun 
light,  seemed  like  a  forest  of  dead,  low,  barkless 
trees.  Behind  these  came  thundering  down  again, 
millions  and  millions  of  buffalo,  making  the  earth 
tremble  with  the  weight  of  their  rushing  and  count 
less  hosts.  For  miles  and  miles,  in  width  as  well  as 
in  depth,  this  vast  herd  covered  the  plain,  bellowing 
and  roaring  in  seeming  terror  at  some  terrible  de 
struction  behind  them.  Then  came  vast  droves  of 
wolves,  panting  and  howling  in  immense  numbers, 
with  jaws  distended  and  tongues  lolling  out,  like 
hounds  wearied  by  the  chase.  None  seemed  seek 
ing  for  prey ;  a  mortal  terror  was  upon  all ;  all  were 
fleeing,  as  it  seemed  for  life,  towards  the  belt  of  tim 
ber  land  visible  in  the  distance.  These  vast  waves 
of  animal  life  swept  by  us ;  the  roar  of  their  count 
less  voices  died  away  like  the  tempest  in  its  onward 
flight.  Then  we  saw  the  reason  of  their  mortal 


118  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

terror.  Away  in  the  distance,  was  a  dense  line  of 
dark  murky  smoke  wreathing  and  twisting  heaven 
ward,  wrapping  earth  and  sky  in  its  sombre  folds. 
On  came  the  fearful  visitation,  preceded  by  a  line  of 
fire  athwart  the  whole  of  that  vast  plain,  flashing 
and  glancing  upward  as  new  fuel  was  grasped  by 
its  devouring  tongue,  and  it  was  hurled  onward  by 
the  rushing  winds.  On  it  came  crackling  and  roar 
ing,  like  a  mighty  billow  of  flame,  devouring  and 
overwhelming  all  things  in  its  terrible  career.  On 
ward  and  onward  it  came  with  the  speed  of  the  war- 
horse,  and  the  roar  of  the  tornado.  Before  it  was 
destruction  ;  in  its  rear  the  blackness  of  desolation. 
Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  on  the  right  hand  and 
on  the  left,  it  moved  in  a  line  of  fire,  leaving  no  es 
cape  save  an  onward  flight.  We  stood  spell-bound 
as  it  approached ;  that  mighty  prairie  seemed  rolled 
up  as  it  swept  along  like  a  vast  scroll,  while  the 
impenetrable  obscurity  behind  it  was  like  the  dark 
ness  that  was  of  old  on  the  face  of  the  deep.  It 
approached — it  surrounded— it  enveloped  us  within 

its  folds,  when we  awoke,  and  behold  it  was 

a  dream  I  and  "  yet  not  all  a  dream."  The  fire  we 
had  kindled  in  front  of  our  shanty  had  crept  along 
the  dry  leaves  until  it  reached  the  foot  of  a  dead  fir- 
tree,  among  whose  thick  and  withered  branches  a 
wild  grape-vine  had  spread  its  thousand  tendrils- 
That  too  was  dead ;  the  fire  had  crept  up  the  dry 
trunk  of  that  dead  fir-tree,  and  having  reached  the 


THE   DREAM   OVER.  119 

net- work  of  vines  and  sapless  branches,  it  burst  out 
into  a  brilliant  flame.  When  we  started  from  our 
sleep  it  was  flashing  and  crackling,  and  twirling  up 
wards,  lighting  up  forest  and  lake  like  a  vast  torch 
in  the  hand  of  some  gigantic  demon  of  the  woods. 


X. 


D,   WITH    A    DASH    TO    IT. 

OH,  compositors!  oh,  proof-readers!  and  you, 
oh,  printers'  devils!  if  you  have  anything  to  do 
with  it,  please  give  us  the  facts  which  we  send  you, 
as  they  are.  The  facts,  not  imaginations. 

"We  admit  that  words  are  poor  and  inexpressive 
signs,  but  they  are  all  we  have  to  talk  with.  And  we 
can  approximate  somewhat  to  each  other's  ideas,  by 
a  proper  use  of  words.  Usage  has  attached  to  them 
certain  meanings  and  values,  and  by  judgment  and 
care,  a  man  may  sometimes  say  almost  the  very 
thing  which  he  has  in  mind.  But,  my  dear  sirs,  it 
is  a  delicate  business.  It  is  walking  a  very  tight 
rope,  and  requires  the  most  careful  balance  and  fix 
edness  of  purpose.  Moreover,  it  requires  a  perfect 
agreement  and  unity  of  action.  If  we  say  oh,  ah, 
bah,  and  so  forth,  then  we  expect  from  you  the  same 
oh,  ah,  bah,  and  so  forth.  If  we  say  ex-plum-bum,  ex- 
plum-bum  it  is.  Ex-bum-plum  won't  do,  or  plum 
bum-ex.  No,  sirs,  give  us  nothing  else  but  the 
great  fact,  EX-PLUM-BUM! 

If  you  diverge  the  slightest  from  this  solemn  ex 
actness,  you  depart,  at  once,  into  fictions  and  all 


TROUBLES   OF  AN  EDITOR.      121 

•uncertainties.  In  short,  you  are  in  a  dangerous  way. 
You  don't  know — you  can't  conceive — and  no  man 
can  know  or  conceive  for  you- — the  long-drawn  mis 
chief,  to  which  you  give  such  a  heedless  beginning. 
Why,  sirs,  you  disturb  the  harmony  of  the  world — 
the  moral  equilibrium  of  things.  You  do  not 
merely  stand  in  the  light,  you  bring  down  mid 
night.  You  "  create  darkness." 

This,  I  grant,  is  not  always  the  case ;  for  when 
you  merely  print  on  for  or,  as  in  a  late  paper  of 
ours,  a  shrewd  reader  may  discover  the  error ;  but 
when  you  drop  whole  words,  containing  the  heart 
of  a  paragraph,  I  can  scarcely  express  my  astonish 
ment.  How  you  can  sleep  at  night,  after  putting 
forth  such  fragments  to  the  world,  it  is  difficult  to 
say. 

But  to  some  rules  there  are  exceptions,  and 
although  this  belongs  to  nearly  the  highest  ethics, 
and  is,  in  fact,  almost  that  perfect  law  to  which  ex 
ceptions  are  impossible,  there  is  one  exception  to 
this  rule,  and  it  would  rejoice  my  heart  to  see  it 
always  recognized. 

A  club-rnate  of  mine,  who  had  been  living  a  gay 
life,  as  he  supposed,  discovered  his  mistake  and 
reformed;  and  in  a  letter  to  a  mutual  friend,  cau- 
tioned  him  not  to  write  any  more,  "  cZ,  with  a  dash 
to  it." 

This,  sirs,  is  that  exception,  which,  if  always  ob 
served  in  papers  and  books,  would  gladden  the 
hearts  of  thousands  upon  thousands — this  d,  with  a 


122  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

dash  to  it.  Drop  it,  Mr.  Compositor ;  drop  it,  proof 
reader,  down  with  it,  cast  it  out ;  it  is  a  devil. 
Don't  use  d,  with  a  dash  to  it.  It  is  not  gentle 
manly,  it  is  not  manly,  it  is  not  decent.  It  is  no 
part  of  a  man's  language.  It  is  that  abominable 
thing  which  God  hates,  and  why  should  not  you 
and  I  ?  There  is  no  such  blot  in  the  heavens,  or 
on  the  earth.  No  bird,  or  beast,  no  mountain 
brook,  or  cataract,  or  earthquake,  or  thunders  even, 
that  ever  utter  that  word.  It  is  of  the  Devil's  make 
and  man's  adoption;  applied  to  everything  hot, 
cold,  wet  and  dry,  head,  eyes,  and  body,  and 
(Heaven  forgive  us)  to  the  soul  itself,  while  it  has 
no  fitness  for  any  one  thing  or  person  placed,  or  liv 
ing  legitimately  on  this  our  earth.  It  belongs  to 
that  place  prepared  for  the  Devil  and  his  angels.  It 
is  proper  there.  It  is  there  for  the  place  and  its 
people.  But  you  and  I,  my  friend,  are  not  yet  sen 
tenced.  Thanks  be  to  our  Father  in  Heaven,  the 
blue  sky  is  still  "bending  over  us  all."  We  have 
not  yet  gone  down  into  darkness  and  despair. 

Oh !  of  all  smallest  performances  under  the  sun, 
what  a  study  for  a  Hogarth,  is  that  of  "  man,  born 
like  a  wild  ass's  colt,"  calling  hastily  for  the  day  of 
judgment,  with  this  d,  with  a  dash  to  it !  What 
courage !  what  heroism  I  what  greatness !"  what  a 
sublimely  high  purpose!  My  own  life  has  been  so 
joyous,  not  to  say  exultant,  that  I  cannot  presume 
to  know  how  terribly  some  may  be  tempted ;  but  I 
can  well  imagine  that  here  and  there,  and  more 


BLOWING  OFF   STEAM.  123 

than  here  and  there,  in  the  pressing  crowd  who 
are  daily  moving  on  to  the  grave,  there  may  be 
uplifted  hands  and  trembling  aspirations ;  I  can 
imagine  many  a  sinking  heart  and  weary  brain 
tempted,  if  you  please,  to  cry,  "Spare  us,  Good 
Lord;  Christ,  have  mercy  upon  us !" — but  to  invoke 
evil — to  ask  for  death  and  perdition,  oh !  the  mad 
ness — the  madness ! 

Tastes  no  doubt  differ,  and  to  some,  d,  with  a 
dash  to  it,  may  have  a  pleasant  twang,  but  I  would 
rather  have  a  pistol  fired  in  my  hair,  than  ever  hear 
it,  or  any  of  its  horrid  combinations,  and  I  never 
heard  it  even  repeated,  as  from  another,  in  rounding 
a  story,  or  giving  a  fancied  point  to  an  anecdote, 
that  it  was  not  accompanied  with  a  sheep-faced  con 
sciousness  of  having  done  a  very  small  thing.  I 
never  saw  a  man  detected  in  stealing  a  leg  of  mutton, 
but  I  should  think  such  a  man  would  have  just 
about  such  an  expression  of  countenance. 

There  are  people  who  think  they  feel  better, 
sometimes,  for  "  blowing  off  steam,"  as  they  call  it. 
But  swearing  is  not  blowing  off  steam ;  it  is  burst 
ing  the  boiler.  Doubtless,  as  a  people,  we  carry  too 
many  pounds  to  the  square  inch — let  us  blow  off, 
by  all  means,  but  don't  let  us  suppose  that  the  final 
cause  and  end  of  steam  is  to  "blow  up." 

The  truth  is,  we  may,  with  just  as  much  pro 
priety,  just  as  much  kindness,  and  about  the  same 
effect,  throw  vitriol  about  among  our  friends,  as  to 


124  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

foul  the  pure  air  of  heaven  with  oaths  and  blasphe 
mies. 

Is  it  not  so,  Mr.  Editor,  Mr.  Compositor,  Mr. 
Proof-reader  ?  Then  let  us  make  it  so.  Let  us  down 
with  d,  with  a  dash  to  it. 

Its  force  is  weakness — its  point  is  bathos.  The 
world  is  bad  enough,  wicked  enough,  wretched 
enough,  miserable  enough ;  but  it  is  not  so  bad,  or 
wicked,  or  wretched,  or  miserable,  as  to  give  any 
logic  or  fitness  to  d,  with  a  dash  to  it.  It  is  not  yet 
in  order. 

What  say  you  all  to  giving  it  the  cold  shoulder  ? 
Eh!  What's  the  vote?  Send  me,  Mr.  Editor,  the 
ayes  and  noes,  on  the  following  proposition :  Never 
to  print — -never  to  write — never  to  utter — never  to 
listen  to  it — never  in  any  way,  shape,  or  manner, 
open  or  sly,  to  use  ud,  with  a  dash  to  it." 

Yours,         . 


"  If  you  diverge  the  slightest  from  this  solemn  exactness,  you 
depart  at  once  into  fiction,  and  all  uncertainties.  In  short,  you 
are  in  a  dangerous  way.  Why,  sirs,  you  disturb  the  harmony  of 
the  world-— the  moral  equilibrium  of  things  ;  you  do  not  merely 
stand  in  the  light,  you  bring  down  midnight — you  create  dark- 


Just  so !  We  have  laughed  and  scolded  and  said 
a  good  many  things,  that  to  some  might  sound  like 
profane  swearing,  over  this  same  matter.  We  have 
been  victimized  ourself,  dozens  of  times — made  to 


SPELLING   FIGS   WITH  A   P.      125 

say  all  sorts  of  queer  tilings,  by  the  mere  change  of 
a  letter,  or  mistake  of  a  word.  We  came  to  our 
present  position  entirely  green,  as  to  all  matters  per 
taining  to  the  management  of  a  newspaper.  We 
had  not,  in  all  our  life,  had  an  hour's  experience  in 
proof-reading.  We  have  tried  our  best  to  improve 
in  this  respect,  but  we  still  fall  very  short  of  perfec 
tion.  The  types  make  us  say  a  good  many  things 
we  never  dreamed  of,  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  when 
they  speak,  whatever  they  say,  becomes  a  fixed 
fact,  unchangeable  as  destiny,  standing  there  impreg 
nable,  defiant  of  all  Human  agency  to  change  it. 

Not  long  since,  we  visited  a  friend  in  the  country, 
and  in  giving  an  account  of  our  ramblings  and  the 
pleasant  things  we  had  seen,  we  undertook  to  de 
scribe  his  beautiful  garden,  and  in  doing  so,  spoke 
of  a  thrifty  fig-tree  and  its  fruit.  We  claim  some 
genius  for  graphic  description,  and  have  always  been 
a  little  proud  of  our  efforts  in  that  line.  Judge 
then  of  our  mortification,  when  our  attention  was 
called  to  the  fact  that  we  had  hung  all  manner  of 
"  PIGS"  on  the  oriental  tree  in  our  friend's  conserva 
tory,  from  the  little  green  nucleus  from  which  the 
blossom  had  just  fallen,  to  the  fully  ripe  "pig." 

On  another  occasion  we  had  been  presented  with 
a  basket  of  oranges.  Large,  ripe,  and  luscious  the 
fruit  was,  direct  from  the  sunny  South,  where  it  grew. 
We  acknowledged  the  gift  in  suitable  terms,  as  all 
editors  who  are  presented  with  nice  things  should. 
The  next  day  one  of  those  joke-finders,  that  are  per: 


126  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

mitted,  for  some  inscrutable  purpose,  to  pester  the 
world,  stalked  into  our  office  and  gravely  inquired 
about  the  basket  of  "  ourangoutangs"  we  had  been 
favored  with.  "Bring  us  the  paper  of  yesterday!" 
we  thundered  to  our  devil,  (not  he  of  the  hoof  and 
horns,)  who  was  sitting  cross-legged  on  a  stool, 
studying  the  programme  of  a  band  of  negro  melo 
dists,  who  were  to  give  a  banjo  and  bone  concert  in 
the  evening.  The  paper  was  brought,  and  sure  as 
fate,  we  had  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  a  basket 
of  most  beautiful  "  OURANGOUTANGS,"  from  our 
esteemed  friend  Mr.  JOHN  SMITH,  who  had  just  re 
ceived  a  cargo  of  the  same  sort,  at  his  old  stand  on 
the  Hill. 

A  friend  of  ours,  who  was  formerly  connected 
with  the  press,  as  the  editor  of  a  country  newspaper, 
relates  an  amusing  anecdote  on  this  subject.  He 
had  an  old  chum,  whose  name  was  BULLOCK,  and 
who  took  to  himself  a  wife  one  day.  Our  friend, 
who  attended  the  wedding,  undertook  to  announce, 
in  a  becoming  manner,  through  the  columns  of  his 
paper,  the  happy  event.  In  the  afternoon  of  the 
day  on  which  the  announcement  was  made,  Mr. 
BULLOCK  strode  into  his  office,  with  face  blazing,  and 
eyes  flashing  with  indignation,  one  hand  grasping 
a  newspaper,  and  the  other  closed  up  into  a  compact 
bunch  of  bones,  like  a  sledge-hammer — "  Look  you, 

Mr.  D ,"  said  he,  with  a  voice  choking  with  anger, 

"by  what  name  am  I  to  be  called?  Answer  me 
that,  you  type-setting,  quill-driving  son  of  a  cylinder 


AN  EXCITED  BRIDEGROOM.      127 

press."  "Hallo,"  cried  our  friend,  "what's  out, 
now?"  "I  want  to  know  what  my  name  is — my 
NAME,  that's  what's  out,"  cried  the  enraged  BUL 
LOCK.  "  Your  name  ?  Why  BULLOCK,  to  be  sure- 
Mr.  J.D.  BULLOCK,  M.D. — who  ever  disputed  that?" 
replied  our  astonished  friend.  "Look  there,"  said 
the  excited  married  man,  pointing  to  the  announce 
ment  of  his  own  wedding  in  our  friend's  paper,  and 
there,  sure  enough,  was  the  marriage  of  the  beauti 
ful  and  accomplished  Miss  AMELIA  AGNES  So  and 
So,  to  J.  D.  BULLCALF,  Esquire,  M.D.,  with  an  ac 
knowledgment  of  the  receipt  of  a  large  slice  of  the 
bride's  loaf,  and  a  liberal  puff  for  the  wedding, 
which,  under  all  the  circumstances,  looked  mightily 
like  a  burlesque.  The  evident  mortification  of  the 
editor,  and  his  solemn  word  of  honor  that  it  was 
purely  a  mistake,  appeased  the  injured  party ;  but 
our  friend  always  insisted  that  he  narrowly  escaped 
a  personal  assault  on  that  occasion. 

We  are  getting  used  to  these  things,  and  they  do 
not  trouble  us  as  they  did  once.  They  are  vexa 
tious  enough,  but  they  will  happen.  Writers  will, 
through  all  time,  suffer  from  the  inaccuracies  of  com 
positors  and  proof-readers.  The  best  remedy  we 
know  of,  is  contained  in  the  prescription  of  a  med 
ical  friend  of  ours,  who  is  principled  against  curing 
the  toothache  by  extracting  the  troublesome  molar. 
"Doctor,"  said  a  suffering  patient,  with  his  under 
jaw  in  a  sling  like  a  broken  arm,  and  one  side  of  his 
facke  swollen  to  the  semblance  of  the  moiety  of  a 


128  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

moderately  sized  pumpkin,  "I've  got  the  tooth 
ache  !"  "Have  you?"  said  the  doctor,  calmly.  "  Yes, 
I  have,"  replied  the  patient,  "  and  it's  the  jumping 
toothache,  too.  This  infernal  grinder  kicks  like  a 
whole  team  of  mules."  "Does  it?"  said  the  doctor, 
calm  and  cold  as  an  iceberg.  "Yes,  it  does"  was 
the  answer.  "  What  shall  I  do  for  this  intolerable 
agony?"  "  Grin  and  bear  it,  and  be  thankful  that 
you've  got  teeth  enough  in  your  head  to  ache,"  re 
plied  the  Doctor,  as  he  turned  his  back  on  the  suf 
fering  patient  and  walked  away.  So  we  say  to  all 
authors,  and  our  friend,  MARGINS,  in  particular,  in 
view  of  these  occasional  typographical  blunders, 
"Grin  and  bear  it,"  and  be  thankful  for  the  talent 
that  enables  you  to  furnish  a  work  in  which  the 
world  sees  beauty  enough  to  be  marred  by  a  "mis 
take  of  the  printer." 

Is  it  not  so,  Mr.  Editor,  Mr.  Compositor,  Mr.  Proof-reader  ? 
Then  let  us  make  it  so.  Let  us  down  with  d,  with  a  dash  to  it. 

It  is  all  very  well  to  talk  about  this  downing  "  with 
d,  with  a  dash  to  it."  Keform  is  a  pleasant  thing  to 
talk  about  in  a  quiet  way,  to  think  of;  and  speculate 
upon.  In  our  closet  we  may  imagine  what  a  wrong 
thing  this  or  that  popular  habit  may  be — how  unpro 
ductive  of  good — how  pregnant  of  evil — how  easily 
its  folly  may  be  demonstrated,  and  how  readily  it 
will  be  abandoned  by  the  people  when  they  come 
to  understand  it.  All  theory !  all  imagination  I  our 
dear  MARGINS.  Strong  as  we  may  be  in  logic  in 


MISTS   OF   EARLY   MORNING.     129 

these  closet  interviews  with  ourselves,  there  "is  one 
thing  wanting,  the  lack  of  which  annihilates  our 
theories,  and  dissipates  our  imaginings  like  the  mists 
that  go  up  in  the  early  morning,  from  the  cascades 
and  waterfalls  of  your  Eoaring  Biver.  Go  out  into 
the  streets,  and  preach  reform  in  this  matter.  Take 
the  swearer  by  the  button-hole,  and  pour  your  exhor 
tations,  your  logic,  your  demonstrations  into  his  ear. 
Tell  him  it  belittles  humanity,  and  is  a  sin  against 
God.  Prove  its  folly,  its  utter  uselessness.  It's 
hazarding  the  great  interest  of  the  soul,  for  that 
which  is  more  utterly  worthless  than  a  mess  of  pot 
tage.  He  won't  argue,  he  won't  gainsay  a  word  of 
your  excellent  admonition.  He'll  stand  like  a  post 
until  you  have  exhausted  the  subject  and  passed  on. 
Then,  as  his  companion  emerges  from  around  the 
corner,  and  comes  within  speaking  distance,  he'll 
point  you  out  as  one  of  those  reformers  (coupling 
the  latter  epithet,  may  be,  with  an  expressive  adjec 
tive,  made  up  with  a  "  d,  with  a  dash  to  it")  who  go 
about  preaching  up  the  necessity  of  progress  in  the 
moral  condition  of  the  world,  and  boring  people 
with  their  abstract  notions  of  human  perfectibility, 
and  thereupon  he  and  his  friend  will  have  a  laugh 
over  what  they  are  pleased  to  term  your  folly  in 
meddling  with  that  which  does  not  concern  you, 
instead  of  rolling  up  dollars,  by  attending  to  that 
which  does.  The  thing  we  lack  in  our  closet 
theories,  in  this  as  in  most  matters  of  reform,  is  the 
want  of  practical  applicability  of  those  theories  to 
6 


130  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

the  actual  condition  of  the  world  as  it  is.  We  forget 
how  impossible  it  is  to  make  the  people  pause,  to 
make  human  nature  pause,  in  its  onward  rush,  to 
comprehend  us,  to  feel  the  force  of  our  reasoning, 
and  the  justness  of  our  admonitions.  We  forget 
that  something  more  is  necessary  to  change,  or  erad 
icate  a  popular  habit,  than  the  mere  demonstration 
of  its  folly.  Every  body,  for  more  than  a  thousand 
years,  has  been  convinced  of  the  folly  of  profanity, 
aye,  of  its  wickedness,  too.  Nobody  advocates  it. 
Nobody  justifies  it ;  and  yet  about  three  out  of  every 
five  of  the  people  of  all  Christian  nations  indulge  in 
this  most  foolish  and  wicked  habit  of  using  the  "  d, 
with  a  dash  to  it."  It  may  in  some  sense  be  called 
a  Christian  habit,  and  goes  hand  and  hand  with  the 
spread  of  Christianity.  And  yet  against  this  habit 
Christianity  has  been  warring  always.  Always 
denouncing,  always  execrating  it.  It  finds  no  word, 
or  letter  of  sanction,  in  all  the  broad  range  of  the 
Chrtstian's  creed,  or  the  wide  reach  of  Christian 
duties.  How  shall  we  account  for  this,  save  by 
supposing  that  the  great  Author  of  Evil  goes  along 
by  the  side  of  the  evangelists,  the  missionaries,  and 
scatters  his  tares  wherever  he  finds  good  seed  taking 
root,  dropping  an  oath  wherever  he  sees  the  germ 
of  a  prayer,  thus  sending  up  to  Heaven,  with  the  in 
cense  of  every  pious  and  holy  aspiration,  an  attend 
ant  blasphemy,  to  mar  the  joy  of  angels  over  a  soul 
redeemed  ? 


A  MARVELLOUS   GOOD   WORLD.    131 

"  The  world  is  bad  enough,  wicked  enough,  wretched  enough, 
miserable  enough." 

True,  every  word  most  true ;  and  yet,  as  a  whole, 
it  is  a  good,  a  marvellously  good  world.  Could  we, 
friend  MARGINS,  I  mean  you  or  I,  or  any  human 
power,  invent  one  that  would,  in  degrees  of  perfection, 
come  within  a  sightless  distance  of  this,  which  the 
great  Creator  has  made  for  us  ?  "Would  we  venture  to 
point  to  one  thing  in  the  great  universe  of  God,  wheth 
er  in  the  heavens  above,  or  on  this  earth,  and  say  this 
is  out  of  place,  this  is  a  deformity,  this  is  useless  ? 
Would  we,  in  looking  over  the  doings  of  Providence 
in  the  administration  of  his  visible  government,  and 
selecting  some  great  national  or  individual  calamity, 
one  that  spread  ruin  and  sorrow  even  over  a  whole 
people,  venture  to  affirm  that  this  should  have  been 
ordered  otherwise  ?  Seeming  evils  there  are  doubt 
less — events  ordered  by  God  that  may  bear  hard 
upon  us.  Sorrow  may  darken  around  us ;  the  hopes 
that  we  cherished  may  vanish  away,  and  we  may  sit 
down  in  desolation  of  spirit,  to  weep  over  the  loss 
of  things  that  we  loved.  But  when  we  see,  all  around 
us,  the  clustering  evidences  of  the  boundless  bene 
volence,  the  infinite  goodness  of  the  Power  that  con 
trols  human  destiny,  would  we  venture,  were  the 
choice  given  us,  to  turn  aside  even  the  sorrow  that 
fell  upon  ourselves  ?  Would  we  take  the  hazards 
of  marring  the  great  plans  of  the  Infinite  Mind,  or 
bend  them  to  square  with  our  own  feeble  and  narrow 


132  COUNTRY   MA-RGINS. 

perceptions  ?  When  we  looked  upon  the  pale,  still 
face  of  a  beloved  child,  its  eyes  closed  in  death,  with 
the  wreath  encircling  its  marble  brow,  placed  there 
by  the  hand  of  love  to  decorate  it  for  the  grave, 
would  we  call  the  spirit  back,  or  breathe  life  again 
into  that  moveless  corpse  ?  The  heart  might  yearn 
for  its  darling,  but  who  would  not  say,  it  is  God's 
work,  let  it  be  as  it  is  ? 


XL 

SEPTEMBER. 

DEAR  EDITOR,  we  despair.  For,  of  course,  it  is 
raining  again,  (just  this  once,)  after  all  the  late 
floods,  and  so  we  are  not  at  No.  —  Broadway,  though 
we  tried  hard.  We  went  to  the  station,  where,  as 
you  know,  it  is  my  way  to  "take  the  cars,"  but  just 
then  a  long  line  of  black  cloud  rolled  up  from  the 
west,  a  white  field  rolled  out  beyond  it,  and  certain 
heavy  cannonades  in  that  quarter  indicated  the  same 
kind  of  thunderous  Saturday  afternoon,  which  has 
been  repeated  now  for  about  six  times  in  succession. 
And  so  we  came  back. 

Eain,  rain;  rain !  But  we  are  safely  housed  again, 
though  what  with  riding  home  in  a  whirlwind,  my 
people  have  a  color  that  will  last  them  into  next 
week. 

So  brilliantly  as  we  were  made  up,  it  is  almost 
provoking — almost,  I  say — not  to  have  made  a  little 
figure  this  afternoon  in  North  Broadway.  In  the 
confusion  incident  to  whether  we  should  go,  I  took 
cards  to  show  our  intent,  mounted  into  the  one 


134  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

freight  car  just  behind  the  engine,  and  came  on 
thundering  through  smoke  and  cinders,  over  Roar 
ing  River,  while  my  people  came  back  behind  Red 
Jacket;  but  at  Bungtown  my  courage  failed,  and  I 
dropped  (for  there  was  no  other  exit)  from  that  lum 
bering  concern,  and  came  straight  home  again.  It's 
useless,  said  I,  to  separate  man  and  wife.  They 
should  go  together  in  all  things. 

However,  I  send  the  cards :  Mr.  Margin,  Roaring 
River;  Mrs.  Margin,  Roaring  River,  Wild  Rose,  City. 
Having  parted  with  Snowdrop  and  Honeysuckle,  we 
take  gladly  such  other  blossoms  as  float  our  way, 
and  are  rejoicing  now  in  the  Wild  Rose.  All  of 
one  excellent  garden,  sir,  but  the  world  having  so 
many  waste  places,  some  must  be  transplanted  to 
grace  other  localities.  We  must  be  generous. 

Did  I  tell  you  about  Wednesday  ?  We  were  to 
start  that  day  also.  I  had  said — the  last  thing  over 
night — "  Remember,  to-morrow  we  are  to  visit  the 
great  City  Editor." 

"Will  it  rain?"  said  Mrs.  Margin. 

"  No, — beautiful  night — stars  all  out,  and  moon 
light  too :  beautiful  night,  beautiful !  night  of  nights 
— charmante  I  No,  my  blossoms ;  no  more  storms  : 
go  to  bed  now,  and  sleep  on  into  the  excellent  day 
that  is  corning." 

Next  morning,  opening  my  clouded  eyes,  behold 
the  rain  and  the  equinox  1 

I  say,  sir,  we  despair.  However,  what  could  we 
expect  in  September  ? 


A  RAINY   SEPTEMBER.  135 

Oh  breezy  September,  shady  September,  equi 
noctial  September,  September  and  oysters  for  ever  I 
The  bivalves  we  can  have,  though  we  see  no  Broad 
way,  no  city  editor.  But  if  a  man  has  any  thing 
particular  to  say  about  September,  let  him  speak 
quick,  for  we  are  already  in  the  latter  end. 

Good-bye,  sir.  Make  our  regards  to  Rosebud 
and  all  the  house,  and  all  the  people  about  the 
house,  and  your  neighbors,  if  you  think  proper. 
But  don't  fail  to  grasp  the  great  fact,  that  we  started 
and  came  back  again — that  it  rained  and  re-rained — 
that  we  tried  hard,  and  failed  magnificently. 

Burr-rr-rr-urr  !  (that's  a  train  on  Roaring  River.) 
Squib!  wish-sh-sh-ish  !  (that's  a  flourish.)  Bawl  aw- 
aw-awh  !  (that's  the  blast.)  Let  them  go.  Foolish 
people  to  be  going  off  in  the  rain ;  but  let  them  go. 
Tell  that  conductor,  if  you  see  him,  that  he  owes  me 
one,  for  I  paid  through  and  dropped  at  Bung.  The 
foolish  man  called  out  to  me  to  go  with  him,  but  it 
wouldn't  do.  Rains  and  thunders  in  the  west,  and 
my  people  somewhere  in  the  north  country  behind 
Red  Jacket;  it  wouldn't  do,  and  I  told  him  so. 

Rain,  rain,  and  again  the  rain !  Are  you  looking 
for  us,  sir  ?  Are  you  on  the  house-top  seeking  for 
the  wave  of  a  white  handkerchief?  spying  into  the 
uttermost  north,  for  some  dim  sign  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Margin?  Hallucinated  editor,  go  down  immedi 
ately.  We  are  not  coming.  Go  down  before  you 
are  wet  through.  Go  down,  sir,  and  dine,  and  enjoy 
yourself.  Have  you  got  any  plums,  I  wonder  ?  My 


136  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

people  are  just  now  making  up  for  their  early  din 
ner,  with  plums,  grapes,  and  muskmelons — the  last 
about  the  flattest  kind  of  fruit,  according  to  my 
digestion.  But  the  plums,  sir ;  oh,  the  plums  !  Of 
all  the  generous,  the  bountiful  things  of  the  garden, 
I  love  the  plum-tree  with  my  whole  heart.  It  gives, 
you  perceive,  in  such  a  whole-souled  way,  such  a 
bending  fulness.  We  have  but  few,  compared  with 
our  great  neighbor,  who  has  his  plum  in  every 
corner.  But  our  wealth  is  sufficient — four  Bleeckers, 
two  magnum  bonum,  and  one  sugar-plum.  It  has 
been  very  pleasant  to  feed  out  among  those  trees, 
finishing  or  beginning  a  breakfast,  or  a  dinner,  or  a 
supper;  for  the  ripe  plum  is  harmless  always.  I 
think  I  am  a  better  man  for  those  plum-trees ;  at 
any  rate,  my  digestion  is  better.  Our  tropical  sum 
mer  and  heavy  rains  have  brought  on  all  the  fruits 
this  year,  in  great  luxuriance.  Everything  is  fat 
and  heavy  with  summer.  Our  second  corn  is  just 
now  perfect  —  large,  but  tender — and  rich  with 
sugar.  You  are  not  obliged  to  nibble  at  it,  but  may 
mow  it  down,  as  a  heifer  cuts  away  the  first  grass  of 
spring.  But  the  plum  is  our  stand-by.  And  let 
me  tell  you,  you  can't  do  much  better  than  to  stop 
under  the  Bleecker.  Not  so  very  aristocratic,  but 
good.  The  egg  is  a  golden  dainty,  an  up-town  plum, 
and  the  little  sugars,  to  look  at,  are  beauties,  but  the 
Bleecker  you  may  eat  all  day.  Our  opposite  neigh 
bor,  who  delights  in  fat  cattle  and  pigs  like  a  butter- 
barrel,  and  who  is  rather  cosmopolitan  in  his  ways, 


BEAUTIFUL   SUMMER   DAYS.     137 

walks  daily  amid  his  great  variety  of  fruits,  tasting, 
as  a  wine-bibber  his  wines — that  is,  he  did,  but  he  is 
gone  now.  He  stepped  in  at  Bung  as  I  stepped 
out,  and  has  gone  away  into  the  West,  taking  the 
White  Rose  with  him,  (another  from  our  garden,) 
where  they  are  to  plant  nearly  half  a  county  with 
plums,  grapes,  pears,  apples,  citron,  squashes,  corn, 
and  potatoes,  and  to  have  all  manner  of  men,  wo 
men,  and  children  running  about  the  lots,  planting, 
sowing,  chopping,  harvesting,  carpentering,  mason 
ing,  pond-making,  prospecting,  and  churning  tons 
of  butter — all  which  is  very  well, 

If  all  our  summers  are  to  be 
Like  this  fine  summer  of  '53, 

which,  however,  has  gone  even  now  while  we  were 
looking  at  it — slipped  away  in  a  twinkling — walked 
off  in  the  night,  and  forgot  to  come  back  again.  Ah, 
if  we  could  surround  the  beautiful  summer  days 
and  make  them  stay  with  us  forever.  But  they 
must  go ;  they  were  only  here  a  little  while  on  leave 
of  absence.  We  will  meet  them  all  again  in  the  day 
of  judgment — all  the  beautiful  days,  all  the  golden 
days,  all  the  dark  days  and  nights  of  storm — every 
one  will  be  there.  But  now  it  is  good-bye  and  fare 
well.  And  we,  Mr.  Editor,  you  and  I — stout  as 
you  are,  and  full  of  blood  as  my  veins  are  of  late — 
we  shall  soon  be  saying  good-bye  and  farewell,  and 
to  us,  plum-time  will  be  over  forever. 

But  meanwhile — for  this  particular  moment,  at 


138  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

least — we  live ;  and  whatever  winds  Antarctic  are 
now  ready,  let  them  come.  We  are  to  roll  on  now, 
amid  cool  nights  and  the  checkered  days  of  light 
and  shade.  Let  us  take  the  downhill  of  the  year 
cheerily.  There  is  no  harm  in  being  braced  up  a 
little  when  the  leaves  fall.  Our  front  maple  has 
already  gone  into  colors.  If  this  were  in  mid-sum 
mer,  how  untimely  would  it  seem !  This  is  why  I 
like  not  a  certain  deadness  in  Southern  vegetation,  at 
this  season.  Its  effort  at  being  perennial  falls  short 
of  that  brilliant  success  which  we  look  for,  while  it 
has  nothing  of  the  dying  glories  of  our  Northern 
autumn.  The  perennial,  in  fact,  is  not  altogether 
suited  to  our  world,  or  to  its  prosperous  administra 
tion.  Let  us  have,  rather,  our  blazing  and  dashing 
summers,  cooling  off  through  the  magnificence  of 
autumn,  to  the  snows  and  ices  of  winter.  So  shall 
we  prosper  and  gather  tone  and  character,  and  make 
headway  in  the  great  business  of  life.  So  shall  we 
not  tarry  too  long  in  some  happy  valley,  and  grow 
timid  and  feeble  in  the  mere  joy  of  existence. 

After  all,  it  don't  rain  much,  and  we  might  have 
gone.  But  it's  too  dark  for  introductions.  No,  let 
them  go,  all  the  people. 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh  !" 

Another  train  going  North.  Let  them  go.  They, 
now,  are  going  home.  "Sensible  people.  Coming 
out  into  the  country  where  are  plums,  grapes,  sickle- 
pears,  pumpkins,  and  so-forth.  Coming  home  for 
Sunday.  That  is  sensible,  rational.  You  may 


GOLD   UPON   THE  LANDSCAPE.    139 

always  expect  something  of  people  who  come  home 
for  Sunday — the  day  royale,  "  day  of  all  the  week 
the  best."  Perhaps  we  will  sing  that  to-morrow 
night,  as  we  did  in  the  old  times,  with  a  dozen  voices 
surging  about  through  the  four  parts,  not  to  say  five 
or  six,  for  there  were  always  one  or  two  traversing, 
and  going  crosswise ;  but  we  made  a  noise,  you  may 
be  sure. 

Go  ahead,  up-train,  home  for  Sunday!  Carry  on! 
up-train,  home  for  Sunday.  Pipe  away,  up-train, 
and  sing  it  out,  through  the  valley — up  the  river — 
over  the  hills  and  far-a-way — homejbr  Sunday  !  And 
you,  all  aboard  there,  engineer  and  fireman,  brake- 
man  and  conductor,  young  folks  and  old  folks, 
inside  and  outside — God  bless  you  all — coming  home 
for  Sunday! 

I  think  now,  Mr.  Editor,  I  will  go  out  to  the  west 
piazza,  and  make  a  short  speech  to  the  plum-trees, 
and  by  that  time,  Saturday  will  be  gone,  I  must 
thank  somebody  for  the  plums. 

Au  revoir,  sir,  good-day,  bon  jour,  and  so-forth; 
for  bon  it  is,  after  all  its  wet  and  windy  distractions. 
The  rain  is  over ;  a  spot  of  gold  lies  here  and  there 
upon  the  landscape,  while  in  the  mid-heaven  a  few 
clouds  sail  slowly  about — but  mostly,  the  blue  pre 
vails.  Good !  Look  for  us,  suddenly,  the  first  sunny 
day.  Yours,  . 


"  Oh  !  breezy  September,  shady  September,  equinoctial  Sep 
tember,  September  and  oysters  forever !    The  bivalves  we  can 


110  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

have,  though  we  see  no  Broadway,  no  city  editor.  But  if  a  man 
has  any  thing  particular  to  say  about  September,  let  him  speak 
quick." 

We  have  much  to  say  about  September,  and  in  its 
favor,  too.  It  is  a  good  month,  a  great  month,  a 
glorious  month.  It  is  the  month  of  dahlias,  and 
of  ripe  fruits,  the  seed-time  of  the  year.  Out  upon 
oysters !  They  have  a  taint  of  grossness  about  them. 
There  is  nothing  spiritual  about  the  tl  bivalves." 
Leave  them  for  the  long  evenings  and  cold  days  of 
winter.  But  September  has  its  inspirations.  We 
become  poetic  in  September.  It  is  the  month  of 
yellow  leaves,  of  purple  and  crimson  foliage,  the 
month  of  the  Katydids,  and  the  Cricket.  They  pipe 
clearest  when  September  is  young.  The  tza !  tza ! 
of  the  one  is  loudest  among  the  hazle  bushes,  and 
the  chirrup  of  the  other  shrillest  in  the  wall.  Sep 
tember  makes  them  musical,  but  the  frost  comes, 
and  with  it  the  last  song  of  the  Katydid.  Did  you 
ever,  dear  MARGINS,  indite  poetry,  perpetrate  rhyme, 
of  a  September  evening,  after  listening  to  the  little 
night  warbler  among  the  clusters  of  hazle  bushes,  or 
the  branches  of  the  small  trees  ?  Did  you  ever  ask 
the  insect  tattler  what  Katy  really  did  to  make  such 
a  stir  in  the  world  and  give  occasion  for  its  everlast 
ing  song  of  "Katy  did?"  No!  Well,  we  have, 
and  here  is  its  answer. 


WHAT   DID   KATYDID  DO?        141 


THE  KATYDID'S   ANSWER. 

Oh,  Katy,  dear,  you  know  you  did,  at  midnight's  silent  hour, 
Steal  softly  through  the  moonlight,  to  this  my  pleasant  bower, 
And  here  beneath  its  vines  and  leaves,  by  blushing  roses  hid, 
You  met  the  man  you  love,  Kate — you  did,  you  know  you  did. 

And  here  you  leaned  upon  his  breast,  his  arm  was  round  your 

waist, 

Your  hand  was  locked  in  his,  Kate,  and  when  he  stooped  to  taste 
The  nectar  that  was  on  your  lip,  how  gently  was  he  chid — 
You  loved  to  hear  his  whispered  vows, — you  did,  you  know 

you  did. 

The  moon  was  in  the  sky,  Kate,  the  stars  were  watching  there, 
The  gentle  breath  of  summer  night  was  sporting  in  your  hair  ; 
I  listened  to  your  words,  Kate,  though  soft  and  low  they  fell : 
I  heard  them  every  one,  Kate,  and  if  I  would,  could  tell. 

But  never  fear  me,  gentle  one,  nor  waste  a  thought  or  tear, 

Lest  I  should  whisper  what  I  heard  in  any  mortal  ear. 

I  only  sport  among  the  boughs,  and  like  a  spirit  hid, 

I  think  on  what  I  saw  and  heard,  and  laugh  out  "  Katy  did." 

I  sit  among  the  leaves  here,  when  evening  zephyrs  sigh, 
And  those  that  listen  to  my  voice,  I  love  to  mystify. 
I  never  tell  them  all  I  know,  altho'  I'm  often  bid  : 
I  laugh  at  curiosity,  and  chirrup  "  Katy  did." 

I  would  not  make  you  blush,  Kate,  your  innocence  I  know — 
I  know  your  spotless  purity  is  like  the  virgin  snow. 
And  yet  you'd  better  not,  Kate,  altho'  you  think  your  're  hid, 
Steal  to  my  bower  by  moonlight,  as  once  you  know  you  did. 

The  cricket,  too,  do  you  remember  how  in  early 
September,  he  piped  among  the  stones  in  the  fields, 


COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

and  how  merrily  lie  sang  in  the  wall  ?  We  remem 
ber  one  that  chirped  in  the  corner  when  we  sat  by 
our  father's  fireside.  Ilis  voice  was  cheerful,  and  it 
was  a  pleasant  thing  to  listen  to  his  happy  song. 
Father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters  were  beside  us  then, 
and  we  all  talked  of  the  little  warbler  as  a  thing 
that  we  loved.  If  he  came  out  upon  the  hearth, 
nobody  disturbed  him.  If  he  wandered  over  the 
floor,  nobody  stepped  upon  or  frightened  him.  He 
repaid  our  kindness  by  his  cheerful  music,  as  each 
evening  he  regaled  us  with  a  lay.  But  the  corner, 
and  the  cricket,  and  the  home  of  our  childhood,  are 
all  gone.  Decay  has  removed  the  one,  and  the 
voice  of  the  other  is  hushed  in  death — and  those 
who  sat  by  the  hearthstone  listening  with  us  to  that 
cricket's  song,  where  are  they?  Father,  mother, 
sisters,  brothers,  where  are  they  ? 

Of  the  twelve  that  composed  that  circle,  six  have 
gone  to  their  rest,  and  the  others  have  floated  out 
in  divers  directions  on  the  currents  of  life. 

Time !  Time !  O  !  the  wrecks  that  lie  scattered 
along  thy  pathway ! 

But  will  you  tell  us,  friend  MARGINS,  why  it  is 
that  all  living  things  that  come  out  in  the  September 
evenings,  have  glad  voices  given  them  ?  Why  is  it 
that  when  the  sun  is  gone  down,  and  the  hum  of 
business  is  still,  when  the  voice  of  man  is  hushed 
and  the  winds  have  retired  to  their  caves,  the  voice 
of  the  insect  tribes,  low  and  quiet  and  solemn,  comes 
abroad  upon  the  air?  Why  does  not  silence  come 


SONG   OF   THE   CRICKET.         143 

down  like  the  curtains  of  night,  and  brood  in  the 
darkness  over  us  ?  It  is  that  we  may  not  forget  the 
lessons  that  nature  teaches.  The  heavens  may  be 
darkened  by  clouds ;  the  face  of  the  moon  may  be 
veiled,  and  the  stars  may  not  shine  out  to  remind 
us ;  the  sound  of  the  winds  may  be  hushed ;  but 
the  song  of  the  cricket  tells  us,  that  life  and  beauty, 
and  joy,  and  happiness  are  rife  among  the  creatures 
of  God.  Such  will  your  answer  be,  and  we  concede 
its  truth. 

"  Oh !  if  we  could  surround  the  beautiful  summer  days,  and 
make  them  stay  with  us  forever !" 

We  would  not  do  it  if  we  could,  indeed  we  would 
not.  We  love  the  summer,  we  love  its  long  beau 
tiful  days,  its  broad  fields  of  grain,  its  rich  foliage ; 
we  love  its  haying  time,  its  hoeing  time  and  its  ripe 
harvests.  But  its  hot,  burning  days,  its  noxious 
vapors,  its  deadly  malaria,  its  fevers,  its  cholera  and 
cholera  morbus,  we  do  not  like.  We  love  the  au 
tumn,  with  its  ripened  fruits,  its  corn  huskings,  its 
potato  digging,  its  fat  deer,  and  the  music  of  the 
hounds  on  the  mountains.  We  love  the  flaunting 
robes,  all  flaming  in  crimson  and  yellow,  and  green 
and  deep  brown  that  it  throws  over  the  hill-sides, 
dressing  them  in  beauty  like  an  eastern  Ilouri  for 
the  bridal.  We  love  the  winter,  with  its  social  even 
ings,  its  pure  white  robe  of  snow.  We  love  the 
jingle  of  its  merry  sleigh-bells.  We  love  to  hear 
the  hissing  of  the  north  wind,  as  it  whirls  around 


144  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

the  corners,  and  over  the  house-tops  and  along  the 
streets,  looking  into  the  crevices  of  the  windows, 
and  peering  under  the  doors,  as  we  sit  with  our 
friends  around  us,  and  the  coals  burning  cheerfully 
in  the  grate.  We  can  laugh  at  the  north  winds, 
and  cry,  ha  1  ha !  at  the  driving  snow. 

We  love  the  spring,  with  its  opening  buds,  its 
growing  foliage,  and  its  early  flowers.  We  love  the 
beautiful  green  fields,  and  the  sweet  breath  of  its 
south  wind,  that  comes  to  fan  us,  loaded  with  the 
fragrance  of  the  meadows.  We  love  the  glad  song 
of  the  early  birds,  and  to  see  them  building  their 
nests  in  the  branches  of  the  trees.  We  love  to  hear 
the  shrill  call  of  the  quail  from  his  perch  upon  the 
fence-stake,  and  the  song  of  the  catbird,  or  the  brown 
thrush,  as  he  sits  upon  the  topmost  branch  of  the 
shade-tree  in  the  pasture,  swaying  in  the  breeze  as 
he  sings.  We  love  to  see  the  young  things,  the 
lambs,  the  pigs,  the  calves,  the  colts,  and  the  little 
children,  all  in  their  places,  joyful  and  happy,  frisk 
ing  and  playing  and  running  hither  and  yon,  in 
their  gleesomeness,  full  of  the  spirit  of  life,  and  fun 
and  frolicking,  as  if  there  was  to  be  no  storm,  no 
equinox,  no  bleak  fall  days  or  pinching  cold  of  win 
ter.  We  love  the  spring.  We  love  summer,  and 
autumn,  and  winter.  We  love  all  the  seasons  and 
all  the  months.  We  love  the  days  of  the  months. 
They  are  not  all  bright,  and  glorious,  and  sunny, 
and  we  love  them  the  more  because  they  are  not  so. 
"  Some  days  must  be  dark  and  dreary," 


DAYS  OF  SUNSHINE  AND  STORM.  145 

The  seasons  are  the  types  of  human  life,  and  the 
days  are  types  also.  Mark  this,  friend  MARGINS  ; 
in  human  destiny  there  are  bright  days,  and  dark 
days ;  days  of  sunshine,  and  days  of  storm.  There  is 
spring,  and  summer,  and  autumn,  and  winter.  But 
mark  again.  We  have  but  one  set  of  seasons.  Spring 
will  never  return  to  us,  and  when  the  winter  of  life 
comes,  its  chill  will  leave  us  only  at  death,  and  its 
ice  be  thawed  away  only  in  the  grave.  But  what 
of  that  ?  There  is  another  country,  where  there  are 
no  dark  days,  no  equinoxes,  no  storms,  no  winter 
winds,  where  spring  is  perpetual.  Are  we  bound 
to  it? 

"  Let  us  take  the  down-hill  of  the  year  cheerily." 

Change  the  word  "year"  to  "life,"  and  you  will 
have  brought  out  the  great  leading  principle  of  the 
true  philosophy  of  living.  "  Take  the  down-hill  of 
life  cheerily,"  is  your  only  true  wisdom.  You  and 
I,  friend  MARGINS,  have  at  least  ceased  to  be  young. 
And  however  we  may  deny  being  old,  yet  so  much 
we  will  yield  for  the  argument's  sake.  And,  more 
over,  we  cannot  stand  still.  We  are  moving. 
White  hairs  are  gathering  upon  our  heads,  and 
wrinkles  are  invading  the  corners  of  our  eyes. 
These  are  mile-stones  on  our  journey  of  life.  It  will 
do  no  good  to  count  them — to  try  to  eradicate  them 
is  folly.  We  must  march  on.  We  are  on  the  top 
of  the  hill  at  best,  and  our  way  henceforth  is  down 
ward.  Well,  be  it  so;  and  what  then?  "Take  the 


146  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

down-hill  of  life  cheerily."  No  murmuring  at  the 
descent.  Millions  .upon  millions  have  gone  be 
fore  us.  There  are  flowers  along  the  pathway, 
down-hill  as  it  is.  Hope  blooms  by  the  way — in 
hale  its  fragrance  and  gather  its  blossoms.  Cheer 
ily  !  cheerily !  cries  our  guide.  Let  us  follow  in  his 
footsteps,  submit  to  his  guidance,  and  all  will  be 
well.  The  way  may  be  rough — he  will  lead  us 
where  we  will  not  stumble  nor  plunge  headlong 
down  the  precipices  that  tower  above  fathomless 
depths.  The  way  may  be  dark.  Cheerily !  cheer 
ily!  sounds  from  the  darkness,  and  light  bursts 
upon  our  path.  Yes,  yes,  cheerily  is  the  word. 

"  Perhaps  we  will  sing  that  to-morrow  night  as  we  did  in  the 
old  times,  with  a  dozen  voices  surging  about,  through  the  four 
parts,  not  to  say  five  or  six,  for  there  were  always  one  or  two 
traversing  or  going  crosswise,  but  we  made  a  noise  you  may  be 
sure." 

There  is  something  about  this  that  awakens  me 
mory.  The  clouds  of  the  past  are  lifting,  and  old 
scenes  are  rising  in  the  perspective.  We  are  young 
again.  A  quarter  of  a  century  has  been  obliterated 
from  the  number  of  our  years,  and  we  are  on  our 
way  to  the  old  brown,  weather-beaten  school-house, 
near  the  clear  cold  stream  that  flows  along  through 
Pleasant  Valley,  away  out  in  old  Steuben.  Blessings 
on  that  beautiful  valley,  and  that  clear,  cold  stream. 
We  have  caught  strings  of  the  speckled  trout  from 
its  deep  eddies,  and  upon  its  pipples,  and  under"  the 


THE  VILLAGE   SCHOOLMASTER.  147 

old  logs  that  lay  across  it.  But  we  are  on  our  way 
to  that  weather-beaten  school-house.  It  is  a  clear, 
frosty  night.  The  stars  are  glistening  like  bright 
gems  in  the  sky,  and  the  moonbeams  sparkle  like 
diamonds,  in  their  cold  brilliancy  on  the  snow. 
The  oak-trees,  that  retain  their  dead  and  withered 
foliage,  cast  their  shadows  like  clouds,  on  the  un 
broken  crust  on  the  meadows  that  skirt  the  road- 
There  is  stillness  all  around  us.  The  night  voices 
are  all  frozen  into  silence,  but  there  is  nothing  sad 
or  solemn  in  the  cold,  calm  hush  of  a  winter's  night. 
We  are  on  our  way  to  the  "singing  school."  We 
remember  the  tall,  lathy  "singing  master,"  with  his 
earnest  and  solemn  face,  his  long  hair  parted  on  his 
forehead,  and  combed  straight  and  sleek  over  his 
coat  collar  and  resting  on  his  shoulders.  He  is  be" 
fore  us  now,  with  his  long,  bony  hand  and  long 
fingers,  and  his  mahogany  pitch-pipe.  His  nasal  fa ! 
sol!  la!  as  he  gives  the  "pitch"  to  his  class,  is 
sounding  in  our  ear.  He  was  a  devotional  man, 
and  his  faith  in  the  saving  efficacy  of  psalmody  was 
perfect.  Among  all  the  tunes  taught  in  his  school, 
Old  Hundred  was  his  especial  favorite.  True,  he 
indulged  in  Mear,  Amsterdam,  Lenox,  China,  Green 
field,  Coronation,  and  others  of  the  same  centenarian 
character,  but  Old  Hundred  was  his  weakness,  his 
idol,  his  great  tune  of  tunes.  It  was  his  first,  his 
last,  his  midst  and  without  end.  It  was  the  first 
given  out  in  the  evening ;  it  was  sung  in  the  centre 
minutes  of  the  school,  and  was  sure  to  be  the  last  at 


148  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

its  close.  And  that  class,  merry,  happy,  laughter- 
loving  young  people,  were  they  all,  full  of  mischief, 
frolic  and  fun.  The  more  the  simple-minded  teach 
er  loved  and  venerated  his  old  favorite  tune,  the 
more  they  murdered  it  by  their  discords.  Bass, 
tenor,  treble,  and  counter,  were  sure  to  be  playing 
at  cross  purposes.  Labor  as  he  would,  the  bass 
would  be  too  low  and  the  tenor  too  high ;  the  treble 
would  push  along  like  a  locomotive,  while  the  coun 
ter  would  drag  its  slow  length  away  behind,  all  fill 
ing  the  musical  ear  with  the  most  horrible  compound 
of  discordant  sounds. 

The  good  teacher  has  gone  to  his  long  rest.  The 
old  weather-beaten  school-house  has  passed  away. 
The  free  trout  stream  that  went  laughing  and  scold 
ing  over  the  clean  pebbles,  on  its  crooked  path 
towards  the  lake,  has  been  harnessed  to  a  great 
water-wheel  and  made  to  grind  corn.  That  class, 
too,  is  all  scattered — some  are  on  the  ocean — some 
in  the  far  Western  States — some  beyond  the  Rocky 
Mountains,  and  some  dwell  in  the  city  of  the  dead. 
We  remember  their  happy  faces,  as  they  were  that 
last  winter  that  we  spent  at  the  old  homestead. 
They  are  before  us  now,  and  we  see  them  as  they 
were  gathered  in  the  singing  school,  worrying  the 
good  "  singing  master,"  with  their  mischievous  dis 
cords.  Shadows  all,  creatures  of  fancy,  hallucina 
tions,  memories  only. 

We  visited  the  old  homestead  the  last  summer. 
It  passed  into  the  hands  of  strangers  years  ago. 


MATRONLY   COMPOSURE.        149 

We  inquired  for  the  bright-eyed,  romping  girl,  the 
beauty  of  the  class,  and  we  found  her  sitting  in 
matronly  composure  in  the  shadow  of  a  cherry-tree 
in  front  of  her  dwelling,  fat  and  of  rotund  propor 
tions,  smoking  a  pipe  that  was  none  of  the  cleanest. 
She  had.  cattle,  and  sheep,  and  grain,  and  pigs,  and 
may  be,  money  out  on  interest ;  but  the  vision  of 
the  singing  school  had  vanished  away.  Time! 
Time!  The  wrecks  that  are  scattered  along  thy 
pathway ! 


XII. 

OCTOBER. 

HEAVEN  seems  to  come  very  near  to  us  this 
morning.  It  is  picture-day  everywhere.  Overhead, 
the  blue,  and  the  blue  only ;  and  below,  in  the  soft 
air,  scarcely  a  single  wave  of  motion.  A  mile  dis 
tant  on  the  islands,  a  line  of  white,  some  hundreds 
of  feet  high,  runs  through  the  valley,  and  along  the 
edge  of  this  snowy  embankment  stand  tall  pines  in 
bright  green.  Within  those  white  curtains  may  be 
seen  other  forms,  faintly  outlined  and  ghost-like ; 
and  underneath  the  front  rank,  and  nearer  by,  on 
plateaus  of  rock,  smaller  forest  trees,  rich  in  crimson 
and  royal  colors. 

The  golden  tint  is  in  the  air.  This  is  why  the 
shadows  on  the  grass  have  not  the  sharp  outline 
which  of  late  they  had  in  September,  but  rather  the 
softness  as  of  shadows  by  moonlight.  Sound  itself 
seems  muffled,  and  comes  gently  to  the  ear.  With 
out  thought  as  to  the  why  of  it,  people  speak  low 
and  in  kind  tones.  Every  one  strolls  about  lei 
surely,  saying,  in  a  quiet  way,  "Beautiful — great!" 


GLORY  AND  POMP  OF  OCTOBER.  151 

No  one  hurries  to  enjoy  the  day.  There  is  no 
feeling  that  it  is  soon  to  pass  away ;  we  know  that, 
but  incline  to  think,  notwithstanding,  that  now  we 
are  to  have,  always,  days  just  like  this,  soft,  rich, 
dreamy,  and  brimming  with  a  quiet  joy.  "We  laugh 
at  anybody  who  didn't  know  beforehand  that  we 
were  going  to  have  just  such  fine,  glorious  weather. 
Of  course !  isn't  it  October,  my  hearty  ?  and  hasn't 
it  rained  enough,  in  all  conscience  ?  However,  let 
us  pause  over  it,  and  take  it  down  slowly,  as  the 
boys  do  the  pippins  in  the  orchard. 

A  gala-day,  a  picture-day,  artistic,  beautiful. 
Only  a  little  while  ago  we  had  the  sharp  sour  winds 
and  the  rains — day  after  day,  the  wind  and  the  rain. 
Those  were  the  sneezing  times,  the  coughing  times, 
the  tooth-ache  and  the  face-ache  times.  It  was  hard 
to  look  upon  the  world  then,  as  other  than  a  very 
wet  and  cold  affair.  Now  we  counterpoise  in  the 
calm,  the  repose,  the  pomp  of  October. 

To-day,  all  things  put  on  glory.  Pureness,  and 
beauty,  and  glory.  These  grow  up  together  always ; 
the  one  from  the  other.  Pureness  and  then  beauty, 
and  then  the  crown  of  glory  which  God  places  with 
his  own  hand  on  every  perfected  life.  It  is  the 
water  made  wine,  by  the  miracle  of  death.  For 
death  is  not  the  Divine  order  of  things,  but  life. 
Not  pain  and  trouble,  not  sinning  and  shame,  not 
repentance  and  prayer,  not  struggle  and  labor, — 
but  peace  and  joy,  acclamation  and  hallelujahs, — 
the  water  made  wine.  Some  excellent,  well-mean- 


152  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

ing  people  think  it  the  reverse  of  this — to  wit :  the 
wine  made  water.  But,  oh,  no !  God  does  not 
offer  his  children  any  such  cup  of  dilution,  but  the 
fulness,  (think  of  this,  oh  lame,  and  halt,  and  blind, 
and  deaf,  ailing  and  struggling  and  starving  world, 
ponder  well  the  promise,)  the  fulness  of  life. 

One  cannot  well  say,  to-day, — "Be  not  angry 
with  us  forever."  We  revolt  at  this,  as  unkind, 
unthankful.  Surely  not  to-day,  not  to-day  is  He 
angry  with  us.  Where  is  it  written  ?  Let  me  see 
the  handwriting,  the  autograph  of  the  Most  High. 
Where  is  it  written  that  He  is  angry  with  us  ?  Not 
in  the  blue  up  there !  Not  in  the  little  white  clouds 
which  just  now  are  forming  from  the  morning 
mist, — not  in  the  rich  fruits  of  the  earth, — not  in 
this  air  tempered  to  the  most  exquisite  finish  of 
strength  and  enjoyment, — not  in  this  soft  white 
light, — not  in  the  hearts  of  His  people,  for  wherever 
this  morning  you  find  any  weakest  servant  of  His, 
you  will  find  thanksgiving  and  praise,  and  a  full 
measure  at  that,  pressed  down  and  running  over,  a 
well  of  waters  springing  up  into  everlasting  life. 
Ah,  if  we  could  hear  the  utterance  of  their  hearts, 
would  it  not  be,  "Thou,  Thou  art  the  King  of 
Glory,  O  Christ  !  Thou,  who  art  the  everlasting 
Son  of  the  Father.  Heaven  and  earth  are  full  of 
the  Majesty  of  thy  Glory." 

But  these  are  all  God's  pure  creations,  and 
restorations,  without  sin,  without  responsibility. 
Looking  beyond  them, — into  our  own  hearts,  when 


MODERN   STIMULANTS.          153 

not  in  accord  with  the  true  and  the  right, — into  the 
actions  of  men, — into  whatever  will  live  and  bear 
record  always,  we  then  perceive  the  need  of  that 
petition,  and  the  deeper  we  study  the  responsibilities 
of  life,  the  greater  the  need  and  the  more  terrible 
the  significance  of  those  words,  —  "Be  not  angry 
with  us  forever." 

Of  late — within  a  very  few  years — life  has  become 
cheap.  Our  life,  I  mean,  and  not  that  of  cattle  and 
brute  things.  I  do  not  know  it  to  be  true,  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  cases  of  sudden  death  (apart  from 
external  violence)  are  much  more  frequent  than  we 
have  ever  known  before.  Of  course,  there  must  be 
a  cause  for  this.  We  live  more  upon  stimulants 
than  upon  healthy  nutriment.  The  stimulants  of 
swift  travel,  of  luxuries  of  eating  and  drinking,  of 
music  and  parade  and  dress,  of  appetites,  mental 
and  moral,  sharpened  to  indigestible  consequences. 
These  we  live  upon,  mostly,  and  the  first  child  born 
of  this  life  is  unchecked  self-indulgence — pleasure — 
the  having  a  satisfactory  to-day,  anyhow,  and  with 
out  regard  to  to-morrow.  All  this  becomes,  in  the 
aggregate,  a  passion  so  overwhelming  as  to  entirely 
overlook  the  very  instrument  by  which  whatever 
pleasure  is  received,  namely :  the  life  itself.  Whether 
we  shall  so  become  accustomed  to  living  faster  than 
our  fathers  as  finally  to  reach  a  certain  poise  and 
equilibrium,  a  clearness  for  giddiness,  and  strength 
for  mere  animal  spirits  ;  whether  we  shall  arrive  at 
stability  and  speed  combined,  I  am  not  shrewd 
7 


154  COUNTKY   MARGINS. 

enough  to  guess ;  but  no  one  will  deny  that,  just 
now,  we  are  continually  blowing  up,  or  running  off 
the  track,  or  knifeing,  or  clubbing,  or  shooting 
somebody,  becatise  something  unpleasant  has  hap 
pened.  If  we  can  show  some  sort  of  reason  for 
taking  a  neighbor's  life,  it  is  counted  sufficient ;  espe 
cially  if  we  can  make  out  that  others  in  like  circum 
stances  would  have  been  tempted  to  do  the  same. 
If  it  is  natural,  it  must  be  right.  In  such  cases, 
juries  acquit,  judges  pardon,  and  editors  applaud. 
At  this  rate,  where,  in  the  way  of  whirlwinds,  are 
we  to  bring  up  ? 

A  few  days  since  a  young  girl  in  a  distant  city 
shot  her  betrayer,  and  the  Register,  commenting 
upon  the  facts,  as  they  are  reported,  says,  "She 
served  him  right"  It  is  probable  that  most  of  your 
readers  appreciated  the  spirit  in  which  you  said  it, 
but,  you  will  excuse  me  for  going  out  of  my  beat, 
to  show  you  how  it  looks  to  us  here  in  the  country. 
Let  us  talk  it  over,  in  a  quiet  way. 

And  first,  let  me  ask  who  has  come  down  from 
Heaven  to  say  that  a  ball  through  the  brain  is  good 
and  right  for  the  seducer?  Not  any  angel, — not 
Jesus  of  Nazareth — not  the  Holy  Ghost.  Nor  is 
there  any  message  left  on  record  anywhere  to  that 
effect.  The  sentiment  therefore  must  be  of  human 
origin.  Accordingly,  in  the  same  article  in  the 
Register,  we  find  a  law  proclaimed,  higher  than  any 
of  God's  laws,  and  this  higher  Jaw  is  supposed  to 
rule  in  this  case.  This,  of  course,  you  do  not  put 


ONE    OF   GOD'S   LAWS.  155 

forth  as  anything  new,  for  there  can  be  nothing  new 
in  morals.  At  any  rate,  it  is  not  new.  It  is  so  com 
mon  that  it  may  be  called,  par  excellence,  "  the  com 
mon  law  "  of  the  world.  It  is  the  convenient  law 
of  human  passion.  It  is  the  law  of  sin.  It  is  ex 
ceedingly  popular,  and  carries  a  high  hand  in  the 
affairs  of  the  world.  But  it  is  something  new  to 
hear  of  it  as  being  good  and  right.  If,  in  this  case 
in  hand,  there  is  anything  that  makes  it  seem  right, 
it  is  probably  some  element  of  partial  justice,  to 
which  we  can  say  "amen"  and  pass  on,  without 
further  investigation. 

One  of  God's  laws  commands  that  we  "forgive 
others,  as  we  ourselves  hope  to  be  forgiven."  Now 
there  may  be  existences,  there  may  be  groups  of 
worlds  peopled'  with  beings  of  whom  such  a  re 
quirement  never  has  been  made,  because  unneces 
sary,  inasmuch  as  they  themselves  need  no  for 
giveness.  Such  a  people  fulfilling  all  law,  we  can 
imagine,  may  have  certain  judicial  authority,  over 
any  intruders  that  may  come  among  them  of  a  lower 
order,  or  over  any  of  their  own  number,  who  may 
be  transgressors.  At  first  thought  this  would  seem 
likely,  but  looking  deeper  into  the  matter,  we  per 
ceive  that  they  would  not  be  fit  judges  of  matters 
beyond  their  own  experience.  It  would  be  neces 
sary  to  find  some  one  who  had  been  tempted  with 
all  manner  of  evil,  and  yet  remained  upright,  and  so 
maintained  perfect  clearness  of  perception  and  judg 
ment  as  to  what  is  right  and  what  wrong.  If  such 


156  COUNTRY    MARGINS. 

an  one  could  be  found,  it  would  be  perfectly  safe  to 
vest  in  him  all  judicial  authority. 

Our  case  is  different.  We  are  all  violators  of  law 
— State's  prison  birds,  every  man  of  us — and  for  us 
to  set  up  judgment  is  to  set  up  farce.  Farce  in  fact, 
but  tragedy  of  the  bloodiest  kind  in  its  results.  All 
we  can  properly  do,  is  to  change  the  venue  to  an 
other  world,  and  meanwhile  keep  the  peace  as  well 
as  we  can,  and  wait  until  we  can  all  come  into 
court  together.  And  while  we  wait,  this  precept  of 
forgiveness  is  all  we  have  to  live  upon.  It  is  liter 
ally  our  meat  and  drink.  It  is  not  only  (through 
mediation)  divinely  right,  but  it  is  the  highest  poli 
cy,  the  wisest  expediency  that  can  possibly  be  de 
vised.  Without  it,  the  world  would  go  to  pieces 
before  sunset.  It  is  absolutely  all  that  keeps  us 
alive.  For  we  are  all,  as  we  say,  in  the  same  boat. 
People  on  board  ship,  in  a  storm,  and  with  the  pros 
pect  of  wreck  before  them,  are,  for  the  most  part, 
exceedingly  kind  and  forgiving.  (I  speak  of  men, 
not  devils.)  All  differences  are  overlooked — pistols 
laid  aside,  as  not  at  all  pertinent  to  the  matter — and 
every  man  bears  a  hand  to  avert  the  calamity. 

But  scattered  about  as  we  are  in  the  world,  and 
in  diverse  ways  of  occupation,  we  forget  the  com 
mon  danger, — the  lee-shore  and  the  rocks, — and 
become  hard  and  judicial.  We  set  up  higher  laws, 
and  walk  about  with  an  assured  emphasis. 

As  I  am  not  addressing  you  especially,  Mr. 
Editor,  but  only  throwing  out  a  word  against  the 


THE   BETRAYED   GIRL.          157 

popular  drift,  will  you  permit  me  to  talk  on  a  little 
further?  It  is  refreshing,  sometimes,  to  get  into 
commonplace. 

You  may  ask, — (I  am  putting  up  an  imaginary 
editor) — "  Do  you  not  see  the  great  moral  force  of 
punishment?  of  justice  satisfied?  of  the  fearful  retri 
bution  which  must  follow  transgression?" 

Yes — I  see  that — and  more.  I  see — murder.  I 
see  that  as  long  as  reputable  papers  and  warm 
hearted  men  cry  u  bravo"  the  use  of  the  knife  and 
pistol  will  become  exceedingly  facile  and  con 
venient.  I  see  a  time  ahead,  when  if  this  continues, 
no  man  will  dare  to  step  into  the  street,  until  he  has 
well  pondered  whether  in  his  breakfast,  or  in  his 
prayers,  or  in  the  cut  of  his  coat,  he  has  suited  his 
opposite  neighbor,  who  stands  ready  with  a  loaded 
pistol  to  blow  his  brains  out,  unless  he  is  strictly 
orthodox  in  all  these  matters.  Kind  Heaven  for 
bid  that  I  should  compare  these  cases — I  am  speak 
ing  of  tendencies  and  results. 

Furthermore,  you  admit  that  the  law  (human  law) 
may  regard  this  act  of  the  betrayed  girl,  as  crime. 
This,  abstractly,  is  of  no  moment.  Men  differ  in 
opinion  as  to  crime,  but  crime  is  not  one  thing  to 
day  and  another  to-morrow  ;  one  thing  to  me,  and 
another  to  you.  Facts  are  not  disturbed  or  even 
modified  by  opinion  or  by  human  law.  We  take 
side  views,  cross  views,  wrong  views,  and  always 
partial  views,  but  in  all  this,  we  cast  no  shadow 
upon  the  white  glory  of  truth.  The  shadows  all 


158  COUNTRY   MARGINS.     • 

fall  the  other  way.  Human  action  and  thought  are 
of  course  to  be  judged  by  facts,  not  opinions ;  truth, 
not  guesses  or  approximations.  In  this  only  rests 
the  safety  and  stability  of  all  of  God's  creations. 

There  is  trouble  enough  in  the  world,  however 
bright  it  may  look  to  you  and  me.  Men  are  daily 
going  mad  by  looking  too  long  into  these  depths. 
It  is  scarcely  possible  to  look  down  upon  punish 
ment,  without  being  smitten  and  blasted  by  its  near 
approach.  We  come  back,  singed  and  blackened 
with  its  smoke  and  fire.  We  take  within  us  some 
thing  of  the  spirit  of  the  place.  It  is  better,  as  it  is 
how  much  pleasanter,  to  stay  in  Heaven's  sunlight, 
where  there  is  a  way  to  meet  every  trouble  and 
calamity  that  can  happen  to  man  (short  of  madness)^ 
and  that  is,  not  with  submission  only,  but  thankful 
ness  that  God  is  caring  for  us  in  that  special  man 
ner.  We  know  then  that  He  is  close  by.  He  is 
taking  things  in  hand  for  us ;  managing  and  order 
ing  our  affairs,  which,  whether  we  knew  it  or  not, 
were  undoubtedly  in  a  ruinous  way.  To  resent 
this  and  fly  in  the  face  of  Heaven  with  pistols,  &c., 
— oh,  this  serves  no  one  right,  nor  is  it  right  in  it 
self. 

If  it  w,  let  us  begin  the  work  of  death,  right  and 
left.  It  has  been  quoted  as  proof  of  God's  omni 
potence,  as  shown  in  his  power  over  his  own  holy 
attributes,  that  He  does  not  at  once  punish  all  trans 
gression,  or  (as  this  would  be,  in  effect)  drop  the 
world  from  His  hand,  as  a  worthless  creation.  Car- 


A  SOLITARY   No.  159 

ry  out  tlie  purpose  of  serving  everybody  right  to 
day,  and  the  sun  and  moon  would  look  down  to 
night  upon  a  dead  world.  In  the  fulness  of  time, 
this  will  come,  but  let  us  not  hasten  the  day. 

But  you  will  perhaps  press  the  question  close 
home  upon  me — "  Did  you  not,  as  to  that  leaden 
ball  which  took  the  life  of  the  seducer,  say  in  your 
inmost  heart,  and  with  all  your  heart,  that  it  served 
him  right  ?" 

Well,  Mr.  Editor,  suppose  I  say  yes,  and  suppose 
all  the  world  says  "  yes," — every  man,  woman  and 
child  on  the  face  of  the  earth — what  has  that  to  do 
with  it  ?  Suppose  the  vote  were  taken  to-day,  and 
the  mingling  ayes  of  all  the  living  hosts  were  to  rise 
together,  might  there  not  possibly  be  one  feeble 
voice  heard  thrilling  through  the  uproar,  one  heart 
broken  child  of  sorrow,  struggling  through  tears 
and  agony  to  drown  this  mistaken  kindness  ?  And 
might  not  this  solitary  "  No"  from  a  heart  humbled 
and  broken  before  God,  be  more  likely  to  go  up 
into  Heaven  than  all  the  noisy  affirmations  that 
would  go  clamoring  about  the  world?  And  if 
some  one  in  Heaven  were  taking  an  account  of  the 
transaction,  might  it  not  read  something  like  this — 
"  Yote  taken  this  morning  on  the  earth,  as  to  a  ques 
tion  of  right  and  justice.  Messengers  report  that 
all  the  world  voted  aye,  but  nothing  was  heard 
here  save  one  feeble  'No,'  from  a  penitent  child. 
The  question  is  lost." 

"  But,"  say  you,"  let  us  take  the  world  as  we  find 


160  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

it.  We  are  not  Gods.  You  have  talked  over  a 
long  string  of  moralities,  which  nobody  denies,  and 
for  which  no  one  is  the  wiser.  Let  us  have  some 
thing  practical.  What  is  your  reply  ?" 

It  is  this,  that  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea  of 
what  is  right,  in  such  a  case.  I  see  no  good  result 
in  such  a  terrible  conclusion.  Another  crime  is 
added,  which  in  nowise  mends  the  matter.  An 
other  cause  for  sorrow,  and  the  long,  long  nights  of 
trembling  and  fear;  of  misgiving  and  doubt,  of 
horrors  piled  up  breaker-like  in  tossing  confusion. 
I  see  the  vista  of  life  darkened  and  storm-troubledj 
in  which  shadows  and  lightnings  play  in  fellowship. 
I  hear  voices  in  that  gloom,  as  of  people  going 
about,  saying  "  Served  him  right,  served  him  right  /" 
I  see  no  light  there,  no  landscape  of  peace,  no  glory 
of  October.  It  is  winter  thereaway  and  night ! 
Oh,  thou  Christ,  who  art  the  joy  of  the  world,  stay 
with  us  always,  and  be  our  noon-day  of  light  for 
ever  1 

No,  I  can't  take  upon  myself  to  know  what  is 
right  as  a  j  ust  punishment  for  another  or  for  myself; 
nor  am  I  required  to  puzzle  my  brain  about  it. 
But  if  there  is  any  highway  of  escape,  any  ransom, 
tell  me  about  that.  I  came  into  the  world  only  a 
few  years  ago,  and  can't  make  out  to  see  very  far, 
as  yet,  or  very  clearly.  The  confusion  is  great ; 
the  light  and  shade  intermingle,  and  cheat  the  eye 
continually  with  false  distances,  and  false  bearings, 
and  false  magnitudes.  Only  one  thing  seems  tolera- 


THE  PIPPINS  IN  THE  ORCHARD.  161 

blj  plain — that  light  and  darkness  are  diverse — that 
you  can't  make  one  out  of  the  other — that  you  may 
as  well  expect  a  lamb  from  a  wild-cat,  as  good  from 
evil.  They  won't  breed  together.  They  won't  live 
together.  They  go  contrary  ways,  though  they  meet 
often,  and  always  to  clash,  and  part,  and  come  together 
again,  fighting  to  the  last  gasp.  One  or  the  other  must 
go  to  the  wall,  some  day.  This,  I  believe,  is  getting  to 
be  the  general  opinion.  We  can't  live  so  forever.  Pa 
tience  will  be  worn  out,  forbearance  exhausted,  and 
there  will  be  a  general  uprising  of  all  souls  that  have 
ever  lived  from  Adam  down,  and  a  universal  prayer 
and  shout  will  go  up  to  Heaven  from  men,  angels, 
and  devils,  that  the  combatants  be  parted,  and  sent, 
each  to  some  prepared  place,  with  such  a  gulf  and 
high  walls  between,  as  will  keep  them  forever 
asunder. 

With  a  view  to  this,  God  has  long  ago  set  apart 
a  special  day — the  last  of  this  administration — when, 
without  doubt,  and  without  contingency,  everybody 
will  be  "  served  right. ' 

Yours,         . 


"  However,  let  us  pause  over  it  and  take  it  down  slowly,  as 
the  boys  do  the  pippins  in  the  orchard." 

There  are  memories  that  come  clustering  about 
these  "boys,"  these  "pippins,"  and  the  "orchard." 
Do  you  remember  the  old  Cider  Mill,  friend  MAR- 

7* 


162  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

GINS,  and  the  old  horse  as  he  travelled  round  and 
round,  moving  with  a  slow  and  dignified  tread) 
"  hitched"  to  the  long  lever  that  turned  the  wooden 
mill  that  crushed  the  apples  into  pummice  ?  Do 
you  remember  the  great  "  cheese"  in  its  bandage 
of  straw  beneath  the  press,  and  how,  when  the  great 
screws  were  turned  in  the  massive  gallows-shaped 
frame,  the  rich  juice  of  the  apple  came  gushing  out 
and  running  into  the  great  tub  placed  to  receive  it  ? 
Do  you  remember  how,  with  a  straw,  the  urchins, 
as  they  came  along  on  their  way  home  from  school, 
filled  themselves  with  sweet  cider  from  the  bung  of 
the  barrel  ?  Do  you  remember  how  in  the  long 
winter  nights  you  sat  around  the  fire-place  wherein 
logs  were  blazing,  and  how  the  pitcher  of  cider 
and  the  platter  of  doughnuts  were  placed  upon  the 
old  cherry  table  that  sat  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
kitchen,  and  how  you  helped  yourself  to  the  cider 
and  the  doughnuts,  and  how  happy  each  one  was 
as  he  sat  with  his  pewter  mug  of  cider  in  one  hand 
and  a  doughnut  in  the  other  before  that  old-fash 
ioned  kitchen  fire-place?  Those  were  pleasant 
times.  But  they  are  memories  now.  And  then 
the  apple  parings,  or  "bees,"  as  they  were  called, 
when  the  young  men  and  maidens  came  together  to 
pare  apples,  and  talk  and  laugh  and  play  old-fash 
ioned  plays,  and  say  soft  things  to  one  another  and 
eat  pumpkin  pies,  and  be  happy  after  the  fashion  of 
the  country  people  when  you  and  I  were  young. 
Primitive  times  those  were,  friend  MARGINS,  and 


THE   FAVORITE  APPLE-TREE.  163 

our  proud  daughters  and  city  dames  would  turn  up 
their  noses  hugely  were  they  to  be  present  at  an 
old-fashioned  apple-bee,  such  as  they  used  to  have 
out  in  old  Steuben  when  the  country  was  new,  and 
the  fashions  were  primitive. 

We  remember,  when  we  were  young,  there  was 
a  favorite  tree  in  our  father's  orchard  which  bore 
choice  winter  apples.  It  was  called  the  big  tree, 
because  it  was  the  largest  in  the  orchard.  The 
fruit  of  this  tree  was  always  left  until  the  last,  and 
was  gathered  with  great  care.  There  was  a  worth 
less  fellow  living  in  the  neighborhood  who  one  year 
coveted  a  portion  of  the  fruit  on  the  "big  tree," 
and  was  not  deterred  from  its  acquisition  by  the 
divine  commandment,  "thou  shalt  not  steal."  A 
quantity  of  the  apples  disappeared  one  night,  and 
the  tracks  of  whoever  stole  them  had  a  strange  re 
semblance  to  those  made  by  the  heelless  boots  of 
our  dishonest  neighbor.  There  were  two  insepara 
ble  friends  on  the  old  homestead  in  those  early 
days ;  the  one  a  "  colored  gentleman,"  by  the  name 
of  Shadrach,  who  came  to  our  father's  possession  in 
payment  for  a  debt,  and  who  ran  away  regularly 
two  or  three  times  a  year,  and  then  as  regularly  ran 
back  again,  just  as  his  master  began  to  indulge  the 
hope  that  he  had  got  rid  of  him  for  good.  The 
other  was  a  great  dog,  half  mastiff  and  half  bull,  of 
a  noble  presence  and  a  fearless  courage.  "  Drive" 
and  "  Shadrach"  were  inseparable.  They  worked 
and  played  together,  slept  together  in  the  same  loft, 


164  COUNTRY    MARGINS. 

and  Shadrach  never  ate  a  meal  while  the  dog  lived, 
at  least  at  home,  without  sharing  it  with  his  canine 
friend.  He  would  talk  with  Drive  for  hours 
when  they  were  alone,  and  although  the  dog  didn't 
say  much  himself,  yet  Shadrach  said  a  good 
many  things,  and  laid  down  and  argued  out  a  great 
many  queer  propositions,  against  which  Drive 
uttered  not  a  word  of  dissent. 

One  chilly  night  in  October,  Shadrach  and  Drive 
had  been  out  along  the  cornfields  on  an  unsuccess 
ful  coon  hunt.  On  their  return  the  dog  dashed  off 
through  the  orchard,  and  in  a  minute  or  two  com 
menced  barking,  and  Shadrach  of  course  supposed 
he  had  treed  a  coon  on  one  of  the  fruit-trees.  Now, 
Shadrach  had  an  abiding  faith  in  spiritual  manifes 
tations,  and  stood  in  mortal  fear  of  "  the  gentleman 
in  black,"  and  all  manner  of  spooks  in  general. 
Upon  arriving  at  the  "big  tree"  by  the  foot  of 
which  Drive  sat,  and  looking  up  among  the  branches, 
he  saw  there  in  the  darkness  a  great  black  object, 
with  something  which  seemed  like  a  winding  sheet 
in  its  hand.  Shadrach's  hair  began  to  uncurl  as  he 
looked,  and  hallooing  "seek  him"  to  Drive,  broke 
like  a  quarter  nag  for  the  house.  He  bolted  breath 
lessly  into  the  kitchen,  exclaiming,  "Massa,  Massa! 
Drive  got  de  debble  in  de  big  apple-tree !"  "What 
is  that,  you  woolly-pated  rhinoceros?"  replied  his 
master.  "Drive  got  de  debble  treed  on  de  big 
apple-tree!"  repeated  the  negro.  A  torch  was 
lighted,  and  upon  going  into  the  orchard,  there  sat 


THE  THIEF  IN  THE  APPLE-TREE.  165 

our  thievish  neighbor  among  the  branches,  with  a 
bag  half  filled  with  the  coveted  fruit.  Our  father 
said  not  a  word  to  him,  but  after  giving  Shadrach 
certain  directions,  returned  quietly  to  the  house. 
Old  Shadrach  laid  his  jacket  down  by  the  root  of 
the  apple-tree,  and  ordering  Drive  to  watch  it, 
said  to  the  occupant  of  the  tree,  "Look  hea,  you 
brack  tief,  you  come  down,  and  Drive  eat  you 
head  off  sartain.  Ugly  dog  dat.  Eat  a  white  tief 
up  like  a  coon,  sure.  Roost  up  dare  like  turkey, 
yah!  yah!"  Shadrach  went  to  his  loft,  and  laid 
himself  quietly  away.  When  the  day  broke,  there 
was  the  thief  in  the  tree,  and  there  was  Drive  watch 
ing  him.  When  the  sun  rose  they  were  there.  The 
negro  gave  Drive  his  breakfast,  and  left  him  his 
jacket  and  the  man  in  the  tree  to  watch.  Our 
father  and  the  "  boys,"  of  whom  we  were  one,  went 
to  husking  corn  in  the  orchard.  Ten  o'clock  came, 
and  there  was  the  dog  at  the  roots,  and  the  man 
perched  among  the  branches  of  the  "big  apple- 
tree."  The  horn  sounded  for  dinner,  and  when  wre 
returned  the  two  were  there  still.  The  thief  called 
beseeching  to  our  father  to  allow  him  to  come 
down.  " Well,"  was  the  reply,  "why  don't  you 
come  down?"  "This  infernal  dog  will  eat  me  up 
if  I  do,"  said  the  thief.  "  Very  likely,"  was  the 
calm  rejoinder,  and  we  went  on  husking  the  corn. 
Once  or  twice  the  occupant  of  the  apple-tree,  after 
coaxing  and  flattering  the  dog,  attempted  to  de 
scend,  but  Drive's  ivory  warned  him  of  his  peril,  and 


166  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

he  went  back  to  his  percli.  There  never  was  another 
human  being  in  such  ecstasies  all  the  day  as  was  that 
negro.  "  Yah !  yah  !"  he  would  break  out  in  an  un 
controllable  cachinnation,  and  then  roll  and  halloo, 
and  yah!  yah!  among  the  corn-stalks,  until  you 
could  hear  him  a  mile.  The  sun  went  down  be 
hind  the  hills,  and  there  still  was  the  thief  arid  the 
dog.  We  all  went  in  to  supper,  and  in  the  twilight 
of  the  evening,  in  pity  to  the  famished  and  fright 
ened  culprit,  the  dog  was  withdrawn,  and  he  was 
permitted  to  slink  away  home.  He  never  stole 
apples  again,  or  anything  else  from  our  father,  while 
Drive  and  old  Shadrach  remained  on  the  farm. 

"  A  few  days  since,  a  young  girl  in  a  distant  city  shot  her 
betrayer,  and  the  Register,  commenting  upon  the  facts,  as  they 
are  reported,  says, '  She  served  him  right.'  " 

We  read  one  day  in  a  Western  paper  that  a  man 
had  secured,  by  the  seducer's  arts,  the  affections  of 
a  confiding  and  inexperienced  girl;  that  he  had 
tempted  her  to  leave  her  home  and  those  whom  she 
loved,  and  who  loved  her;  that,  confiding  in  his 
promises,  and  leaning  upon  his  faith,  she  had  gone 
with  him  to  a  distant  city,  where  he  was  to  make 
her  his  wife.  That,  delaying  under  various  pretexts 
the  performance  of  his  vows,  he  succeeded  in  rob 
bing  her  of  her  virtue,  and  then  left  her  desolate 
and  penniless,  unprotected  and  alone,  in  a  strange 
city.  That  when  she  sought  him  out,  and  claimed 
the  performance  of  his  plighted  word,  he  threw  her 


SHE   SERVED   HIM  EIGHT.      167 

from  him  in  scorn,  like  a  worthless  weed,  away. 
That  in  her  despair,  and  smarting  under  her  match 
less  wrongs,  she  smote  him  to  death  at  her  feet. 
Upon  reading  this  account  of  the  gigantic  wicked 
ness,  the  iron  cruelty  of  her  betrayer,  we  said,  and 
we  say  again,  "  She  served  him  right ;"  and  herein 
it  will  be  seen  that  we  struck  a  chord  that  roused 
up  the  latent  energies  of  our  friend  MARGINS,  and 
brought  forth  his  inward  might. 

We  spoke  of  human  nature  as  God  made  it.  We 
spoke  of  man  as  he  is,  exercising  the  attributes  of 
humanity ;  of  human  instincts  and  sympathies,  and 
passions,  as  they  are.  We  took  the  heart  of  man 
as  it  came  from  the  hands  of  Deity,  fashioned  as  He 
fashioned  it,  quick  with  all  its  natural  yearnings 
and  finite  pulsations.  We  spoke  of  right  and 
wrong,  as  human  judgment  views  them ;  of  retri 
bution  weighed  in  human  scales,  and,  measuring 
the  infliction  of  the  punishment  in  this  isolated  case 
by  the  vastness  of  the  wrong  committed,  we  said 
that  the  act  which  swept  the  seducer  from  among 
the  living,  "  served  him  right." 

The  murderer  who  is  taken  with  the  blood  of 
innocence  fresh  upon  his  hand,  is  doomed  by  the 
law  to  death,  and  through  the  agency  of  the  gallows 
or  the  axe  he  is  launched  into  eternity.  Does  any 
body  say  that  the  law  does  not  " serve  him  right?" 
Who  preaches  forgiveness  to  the  law  ?  Who  talks 
to  the  law  about  exercising  the  attributes  of  Deity? 
Or  requires  it  to  leave  the  punishment  of  the  mur- 


168  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

derer  to  God  ?  Who  asks  the  law  to  uncoil  itself 
from  around  its  victim,  and  let  him  go  forth  to  slay 
anew?  Nobody.  Well,  why  does  the  law  hang 
the  murderer,  the  traitor  to  his  country,  the  incen 
diary  who  fires  your  dwelling  in  which  your  little 
ones  are  sleeping?  What  is  the  principle  of  the 
thing,  the  philosophy  of  this  matter  ?  "  Serves  him 
right"  is"  the  maxim  underlaying  all  penal  codes — 
"  Serves  him  right"  is  the  authority,  the  great  fun 
damental  truth  whereon  is  based  all  human,  aye, 
and  divine  systems,  too,  of  rewards  and  punish 
ments.  It  is  useless  to  argue  the  propriety  or  policy 
of  the  death  penalty  now.  Wiser  men  than  we  are, 
friend  MARGINS,  have  been  arguing  that  question 
for  a  good  many  hundred  years,  and  have  not  set 
tled  it  yet.  "  Serves  him  right,"  says  the  judge,  as 
he  did  when  the  argument  commenced.  "  Serves 
him  right,"  says  the  executioner,  as  he  brandishes 
his  axe.  "Serves  him  right,"  says  the  law,  as  the 
head  of  the  culprit  falls.  Mark,  the  act  which  the 
law  thus  performs  is  one  of  retribution,  based  upon 
the  crime  of  the  culprit.  It  is  justice,  weighing  out 
punishment  for  wrong,  adjusting  the  degree  of  the 
one  to  the  enormity  of  the  other.  Nobody  blames 
the  law  for  inflicting  death,  or  the  officers  who  are 
the  ministers  of  the  law.  In  the  case  of  the  mur 
derer,  the  law  affixes  the  penalty,  and  appoints  the 
method  of  its  enforcement.  It  is  legal  justice,  but 
based  upon  a  higher  principle  of  natural  justice. 
True,  one  object  of  the  penal  code  which  affixes 


THE   MIDNIGHT  CULPRIT.       169 

the  death  penalty,  is  to  protect  society  from  the 
repetition  of  outrage,  and  some  have  claimed  that 
another  object  of  punishment  was  the  reformation 
of  the  culprit,  but  we  never  knew  the  morals  of  a 
man  to  be  improved  by  hanging,  or  having  his  head 
cut  off. 

Well,  we  assume  that  the  law  when  it  takes  the 
life  of  the  murderer,  "  Serves  him  right,"  deals  out  to 
him  a  just  measure  of  punishment.  Do  you  agree 
with  us  in  this,  friend  MAKGINS  ?  Yes !  Then 
we  have  advanced  one  step  in  the  argument. 

Now  remember  that  the  law,  and  the  judge,  and 
the  executioner  are  but  instruments  wielded  by  jus 
tice  to  do  an  act  of  retribution.  It  is  not  always 
right  to  kill  a  man  because  the  law  sanctions  the 
act.  The  word  of  an  absolute  monarch  is  the  law 
of  his  dominions,  yet  when  he  says  an  honest  man 
shall  die,  and  strikes  off  his  head,  it  is  not  right. 
It  cannot  be  said  of  the  sentence  and  the  sufferer, 
"It  served  him  right."  The  law  doomed  the  mar 
tyrs  to  the  flames,  but  it  did  not  "  serve  them  right." 
Why  ?  Because  there  was  no  great  moral  wrong, 
commensurate  with  the  magnitude  of  the  punish 
ment,  committed,  to  give  vitality  to  the  right  and 
power  of  the  law  to  take  life.  The  great  ingredient 
of  crime  was  wanting.  We  give  these  illustrations 
for  the  purpose  of  showing  that  it  is  not  the  might 
of  the  law  that  makes  it  right.  The  murderer  is 
deserving  of  death  independently  of  human  laws. 
Is  the  culprit  who  slays  at  midnight  and  hides  his 


170  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

victim,  the  less  deserving  of  punishment  because 
his  crime  cannot  be  proven  in  a  court  of  justice  ? 
Is  he  any  the  less  guilty  because  he  has  concealed 
his  crime  from  the  clear  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  is  he  therefore  the  less  deserving  of  punish 
ment? 

In  the  dark  annals  of  iniquity  there  can  be  no 
crime  of  a  deeper  dye  than  that  of  him  who  coils 
himself  in  the  confidence,  nestles  in  the  warm  affec 
tions  of  a  trusting  girl,  and  under  the  solemn  prom 
ise  of  marriage,  robs  her  of  more  than  life,  and  then 
leaves  her  to  the  cold  scorn  of  the  world,  to  wan 
der,  hopeless  and  companionless,  through  long  des 
olate  years,  to  find  a  grave  of  infamy  and  sorrow  at 
last.  Think  of  the  mother's  heart  crushed,  and  the 
father's  anguish.  Such  a  man  commits  more  than 
murder.  He  kills  the  body  by  a  lingering  agony, 
and  destroys  the  soul.  Had  he  slain  his  victim  at 
once,  you  and  I,  friend  MARGINS,  would  have  said, 
while  we  looked  upon  her  moveless  corpse,  and  his 
hand  red  with  her  blood,  "this  man  shall  die." 
We  would  have  handed  him  over  to  the  law,  to  the 
judge  and  the  executioner,  as  the  ministers  of  a  just 
retribution,  and  bid  them  spare  not.  When  the 
sentence  that  doomed  him  to  death  had  been  exe 
cuted,  we  should  have  said,  "served  him  right." 
Aye,  in  looking  upon  his  great  crime,  and  the  gal 
lows  upon  which  he  was  hanging,  with  the  last 
pulsation  of  life  choked  out  of  him,  looking  upon 
only  these  two  great  facts,  and  without  a  thought 


JUST  MEASURE  OF  EE TRIE UTION.  171 

of  the  process  which,  suspended  him  there,  we  would 
say — "  This  is  a  just  measure  of  retribution."  "It 
serves  him  right."  But  here  was  a  crime  greater 
than  a  simple  murder — a  crime  which  inflicts  a 
lingering  death,  and  destroys  a  soul,  and  when  we 
remember  the  gigantic  wickedness  of  the  destroyer, 
and  see  him  struck  down  even  by  a  felon  blow,  will 
we  not  still  say,  "served  him  right?"  Eemember, 
we  are  speaking  now  only  of  his  deserts — of  a  just 
measure  of  retribution  so  far  as  lie  is  concerned, 
neither  more  nor  less.  If  he  points  to  the  wound 
that  is  killing  him,  and  claims  our  sympathy  as  a 
wronged  man,  as  suffering  a  penalty  beyond  the 
measure  of  his  deserts,  we  might  be  moved  to  pity 
for  his  fate,  but  when  we  looked  upon  the  desolate 
and  crushed  victim  of  his  heartless  villany,  every 
instinct  of  our  nature  would  still  say — "  served  him 
right."  Were  he  standing  on  the  verge  of  the  pre 
cipice  that  towers  above  the  boiling  eddies  of  Niag 
ara,  with  the  cry  of  his  victim  mingling  with  the 
roar  of  the  waters,  as  she  struggled  to  pull  him 
down,  when  we  saw  him  reeling  to  his  fall,  we 
might,  in  mercy,  reach  forth  a  hand  to  save  him, 
but  if  before  we  could  do  so  he  should  disappear 
over  the  beetling  cliffs,  while  we  might  be  shocked 
at  his  terrible  doom,  we  should  still  say — "  served 
him  right."  And  what  matters  it  whether  this 
retribution  is  measured  out  by  the  law,  or  by  the 
hand  of  the  individual  wronged,  we  mean  so  far  as 
the  wrong-doer  is  concerned? 


172  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

Now  we  beseech  you,  friend  MARGINS,  to  under 
stand  us.  We  could  say  to  his  victim  and  his 
slayer,  "You  are  all  wrong;  you  have  broken  the 
law ;  you  have  violated  the  social  compact ;  you 
have  transgressed  against  the  commandment  of 
God."  In  short,  friend  MARGINS,  we  could  repeat 
to  her  your  excellent  sermon  and  endorse  it  all,  and 
yet  say  as  between  her  and  her  seducer  alone,  "  she 
served  him  right."  Think  you,  that  her  seducer, 
when  he  stands  before  the  throne  of  eternal  justice, 
will  be  heard,  when  he  complains  of  the  wrong  he 
has  suffered  ?  Wrong  there  is  doubtless,  sin  to  be 
answered  for,  but  it  will  not  be  wrong  against  the 
villain  seducer,  the  destroyer  of  innocence,  not 
against  him.  The  sin  is  against  God  and  his  law, 
and  when  this  controversy  between  the  seducer  and 
his  victim  shall  be  settled  in  Heaven's  chancery, 
the  verdict  as  between  the  two  will  be,  "  served  him 
right," 


XIII. 

NELLY. 

DEAR  EDITOR,  have  you  not  a  young  Bob,  or 
Dick  or  Tom,  to  come  up  and  play  with  our  Nelly  ? 
If,  you  have,  send  him  up;  and  we  will  return  him  to 
you  in  the  spring,  fat  and  strong  with  corned  beef 
and  country  air.  We  want  a  companion  for  Nelly, 
lest  she  should  become  philosophical  and  grand. 
She  has  been  with  us  but  a  few  weeks,  but  is 
already  rather  didactic,  and  asking  questions  quite 
impossible  to  answer.  I  think  some  of  writing  a 
profound  treatise  on  life,  beginning  with  Nelly  as 
a  foundation,  and  coming  up  into  mature  years  with 
the  child  as  a  continual  reference  and  standard  of 
values. 

I  imagine  it  would  be  seen  (as  Macaulay  says  in 
the  opening  of  his  great  history,  it  will  be  seen — it 
will  be  seen),  that  notwithstanding  what  St.  Paul 
says  of  putting  away  childish  things — children  are 
mostly  in  the  right,  and  that  for  many  of  us  to  walk 
back  instead  of  onward,  would  be  the  wiser  course. 
It  certainly  is  a  beautiful  arrangement  that  the 
world  is  being  constantly  supplied  with  new  begin- 


174  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

ners,  creatures  direct  from  God,  and  that  so  per 
petual  newness  and  freshness  is  continually  kept 
up. 

We  talk  of  ADAM  and  EVE  as  having  been,  be 
fore  the  fall,  in  a  very  happy  condition ;  but  one 
thing  they  missed — they  were  never  children.  They 
never  rode  horse  on  a  stick,  or  went  to  bed  with  a 
doll.  If  they  had  begun  life,  little  by  little,  line 
upon  line,  seeing,  and  hearing,  and  thinking,  and 
acting  slowly,  and  in  a  small  way,  but  experiment 
ally  always,  as  do  their  children,  and  if,  like  them, 
they  had  tumbled  down  stairs,  seen  stars  on  the  ice, 
burned  their  fingers,  and  in  thousands  of  ways 
stumbled  and  bruised  themselves  upon  certain  phy 
sical  laws,  hard  thumping  evidences  of  order  and 
sequence,  would  they,  oh  my  excellent  editor,  would 
they  have  eaten  the  apple  ?  And  may  not  the  order 
of  Providence,  in  their  history,  have  been  to  show 
not  merely  that  all  creatures  must  rely  wholly  upon 
him  absolutely  and  unconditionally  as  their  life  and 
strength,  but  that  this  life  and  strength  must  be  that 
of  slow  and  gradual  accumulation ;  that,  in  short,  we 
must  toddle  before  we  can  walk? 

And  however  sad  may  have  been  the  giving  up 
of  that  Eden,  it  was  the  place  where  the  apple  grew. 
It  had  its  temptation,  and  what  more  have  we? 
Day  by  day  thousands  are  born  into  life,  who,  if 
they  stay  for  any  time,  must  be  led  out,  with  what 
ever  kindness  and  whatever  words  of  hope  and  love, 
by  the  same  hand,  from  the  garden  of  childhood 


LITTLE   NELLY  FAST  ASLEEP.   175 

into  the  cold  and  dark  contrasts  of  struggling  life. 
The  gates  are  forever  opening  and  closing  upon  the 
little  ones,  and  just  in  proportion  as  they  have 
deeply  felt  the  joy  and  beauty  of  their  first  days, 
and  the  strife  and  temptation  of  the  days  beyond, 
will  they  go  forth  with  saddened  faces  and  with  care 
ful  steps.  Thanks  be  to  God,  there  is  ONE  who  has 
been  before  them,  and  who  knows  the  way  right 
well. 

A  flower  is  a  pretty  thing  with  its  color  and  soft 
ness,  and  its  modest  joyfulness  of  expression ;  so 
may  be  a  picture,  better  than  whatever  piece  of 
inanimate  nature,  but  when  you  have  the  flower 
and  picture  embodied  in  flesh  and  blood,  walking 
and  running  about,  talking,  laughing,  singing. little 
songs  and  hymns  and  glorias  all  in  a  mix,  question 
ing,  wondering,  and  rejoicing  always,  or  on  its  knees 
talking  with  the  Unseen,  telling  Him  some  little 
trouble  and  asking  for  guidance  and  help — then  you 
have  a  little  piece  of  Heaven  upon  earth ;  a  young 
sprout  of  intelligence  fresh  from  God  himself,  placed 
here  to  grow  up  into  strength  and  beauty,  and  at 
last,  under  His  care,  to  return  to  Him  in  His  own 
home ;  accepted,  restored,  saved  itrmay  be  as  by  fire, 
but  crowned  now  with  eternal  glory. 

Have  you  never,  Mr.  Editor,  in  the  dead  of  night, 
with  some  little  Nelly  lying  close  by,  fast  asleep 
with  a  doll  on  either  side,  and  her  hair  floating 
over  her  face,  have  you  never  felt  the  insane  desire 
to  have  some  burglar  enter  the  room,  so  that  you 


176  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

might  shatter  him  into  ten  thousand  fragments? 
Have  you  never  felt  the  power  which  Nelly  would 
give  to  the  right  arm  which  would  hurl  him  down 
the  hall-stairs  and  smash  the  wash-bowl  on  his  pre 
posterous  brain?  And  would  it  be  all  because 
Nelly  is  so  helpless  ?  So  we  say,  but  that  is  not 
all.  It  is  because  she  is  pure,  and  no  breath  of 
harm  must  come  to  her.  "We  act,  in  such  cases,  in 
God's  behalf.  The  angels,  perhaps,  are  with  us, 
those  who  behold  the  face  of  the  Father.  They — 
it  may  be — give  the  strength,  or  the  heart's  blood. 
We  take  care  of  these  little  ones,  as  the  Israelites 
did  of  the  ark  of  the  covenant.  Let  nothing  pro 
fane  come  here — no  rude  hand,  or  word,  or  thought, 
for  it  is  holy  ground.  This  is  why  a  man  may 
think  or  speak  evil  in  a  temple  of  worship,  or 
whatever  holiest  moment  or  place,  but  not  before  a 
little  child,  not  before  one  of  God's  pure  witnesses. 
NELLY  and  I  are  getting  slowly  acquainted. 
Yesterday,  being  rainy,  she  was  busy  for  a  long 
time  putting  my  hair  in  papers,  after  which  she 
advised  a  walk  on  the  piazza,  to  give  a  set  to  the 
curls,  as  that,  she  said,  was  the  way  they  did  out 
West.  "At  night  some  of  the  papers  were  examined, 
but  not  looking  well,  she  recommended  me  to  keep 
them  on  all  night,  which  accordingly  I  did,  and 
got  up  this  morning  with  a  headache.  But  the 
whole  thing,  my  dear  editor,  was  a  most  melancholy 
failure.  Such  was  yesterday.  To-day  she  is  writ 
ing — something  important,  no  doubt — with  a  sharp 


PRECOCIOUS  CHILDREN.         177 

stick  which  she  is  continually  dipping  in  my  ink 
stand.  Her  great  distress — when  she  has  any  dis 
tress — is  in  the  b-a-ba,  k-e-r  ker,  line — as  in  making 
e-a-r-t-h  into  urth,  the  philosophy  of  which  is  too 
deep  for  her.  How  much  falsehood  is  hinted  in 
this  and  the  like  orthographical  lies,  or  how  much 
faith  in  the  necessity  of  believing  such  monstrous 
absurdities,  would  be  a  new  question  to  discuss. 
But  these  light  troubles  are  soon  over.  Five 
minutes  after  such  a  tribulation,  she  will  be  swing 
ing  violently  in  the  great  rocker,  with  both  dolls  in 
her  arms,  to  whom  she  pours  forth  songs  with  a 
die-away  sentimentality  and  occasional  cracked- 
voice  applomb,  that  is  sometimes  very  exciting. 

Oh,  my  kind  Editor,  the  world  is  safe  as  long  as 
children  are  born  into  it.  If  that  arrangement 
should  ever  cease,  if  men  and  women  should  spring 
up,  or  be  dropped  down  ready-made,  we  might  as 
well  give  up  at  once.  There  would  be  such  a  panic 
and  stampede  as  the  world  has  never  seen.  Some 
thing  approaching  to  this  is  unfortunately  taking 
place  in  these  latter  days;  children  are  not  per 
mitted  to  be  children,  but  with  fearful  precocity 
are  made  up  rapidly  into  men  and  women.  This 
is  the  way  you  have  in  town.  But  the  cities — let 
us  be  thankful — do  not  contain  everybody.  There 
is  a  connection  with  God  and  Heaven  still  kept  up, 
through  the  country  and  country  life.  Herein  is 
the  safety  of  the  world,  and  of  government,  and  the 
perpetuity  of  good  institutions — that  you  cannot 
8 


178  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

wall  in  the  country,  you  cannot  pave  the  lakes,  and 
the  prairies,  and  the  rivers;  you  cannot  shut  out 
the  blue  sky  and  the  stars,  you  cannot  fence  in  the 
mountains,  you  cannot  bowl  out  the  salt  sea,  and 
make  streets  and  build  palaces  there.  God  reserves 
to  Himself  all  these,  and  permits  to  those  who  like 
them,  the  self-confidence  of  streets  and  common 
councils,  saying,  however,  that  except  He  keep  the 
city,  the  watchman  watcheth  but  in  vain. 

The  time  must  come,  Mr.  Editor,  when  we  shall 
perceive  that  much  of  our  crazy  life  here,  is  merely 
exclamatory — that  it  is  demonstrative  of  not  much 
more  than  noise  and  general  dissatisfaction — a  con 
tinual  running  up  of  wrong  stairs — an  incessant 
shouting  as  to  views  and  prospects — one  crying  lo 
here!  another,  lo  there!  the  great  sight  consisting, 
perhaps,  in  some  splendid  fog-bank,  glittering  in 
borrowed  light,  and  itself  continually  shifting  and 
passing  away.  When  we  shall  be  willing  to  come 
down  to  simple  statements — such  as  that  little  Nelly 
has  more  life  and  wisdom  than  the  telegraph  can 
report  in  a  thousand  years — we  shall  get  along 
better.  When  we  shall  perceive  and  carry  it  out, 
as  we  say  (but  that  is  not  quite  enough ;  we  must 
carry  it  out,  and  bring  it  in,  travel  with  it,  work 
with  it,  eat  and  drink  with  it,  and  go  to  bed  and 
get  up  with  it),  that  the  intellect  is  nearly  as  much 
a  mere  instrument  as  the  body,  and  of  no  use  save 
as  an  instrument;  that,  with  all  its  glorification, 
it  never  creates,  but  only  finds  out  (invents)  what 


LOVE   OF   LITTLE  CHILDREN.    179 

God  had  before  created,  and  to  which  He  alone 
gives  form  and  life ;  we  shall  become  more  quiet 
(shall  we  not?)  and  return  again  to  children  and 
principles. 

But  that  day  is  not  our  day,  and  before  it  arrives» 
the  world  will  doubtless  continue  to  tiy  what  virtue 
•  there  is  in  stones  and  mortar,  and  iron  and  light 
ning,  and  all  other  aggrandizing  physical  and  men 
tal  forces,  to  an  extent  quite  beyond  our  wildest 
conjecture.  To-day  (in  this  movement)  we  have 
the  dinner,  and  the  dollar,  and  the  lightning  train : 
generous  and  magnanimous,  but  extravagant — and 
material  to  the  back-bone.  When  the  good  day 
comes,  it  will  be  (as  far  as  human  agencies  are  per 
mitted),  through  the  proper  training  of  children,  as 
nearest  to  God  and  the  true  life. 

Yours,      . 


"  Have  you  not  a  young  BOB,  or  DICK,  or  TOM,  to  come  up 
and  play  with  our  NELLY  ?" 

No.  "We  have  no  young  BOB,  or  DICK,  or  TOM, 
to  do  any  such  thing ;  we  have  no  little  boys  of 
that  name.  We  have  no  little  children  at  all ;  we 
wish  we  had  a  half  a  dozen  of  them,  if  they  would 
always  remain  so.  We  love  little  children.  One 
of  our  neighbors  has  a  pure  artless  little  girl  that 
we  borrow  occasionally,  when  we  feel  sad,  or  out  of 
sorts  with  the  world,  and  her  pleasant  voice  and 
childish  prattle,  as  she  sits  beside  us,  always  drive 


180  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

away  melancholy,  and  make  us  cheerful  again. 
We  love  little  boys  and  girls.  We  love  their  frank, 
straightforward  simplicity,  their  honesty.  They 
seem  like  fresh' things,  pure  from  the  hand  of  God, 
unspoiled  by  contact  with  the  corruptions  and  the 
wickedness  of  the  world.  What  a  pleasant  place 
this  Earth  would  be,  if  grown  men  and  women, 
with  their  learning,  their  gathered  experience,  their 
matured  intellect,  their  wisdom,  could  retain  the 
honest  frankness,  the  freshness,  the  purity  of  heart 
and  the  sincerity  of  childhood !  It  would  be  a  place 
then  that  one  might  be  loath  to  leave.  We  do  not 
undertake  to  impeach  the  wisdom  of  Deity.  We 
know  we  are  all  wrong,  but  the  thought  will  some 
times  steal  into  our  mind,  that  it  would  have  been 
better  had  man  been  created  with  less  natural  pro 
clivities  towards  evil.  That  the  world  would  have 
been  happier,  and  human  destiny  loftier,  had  man 
been  so  constituted  that  it  would  not  have  been  his 
tendency,  prima  facie,  as  the  lawyers  say,  to  sin ; 
had  a  nature  been  given  him  that  would  have  led 
him  through  the  instincts  with  which  he  was  en 
dowed,  to  choose  good  rather  than  evil. 

"  Oh  !  my  kind  editor,  the  world  is  safe  as  long  as  children 
are  born  into  it." 

We  deny  this,  as  an  abstract  proposition.  We 
deny  it  as  a  practical  truth.  We  hold  it  as  an 
absurdity  in  theory,  as  well  as  fact.  The  past  his 
tory  of  the  world  demonstrates  its  fallacy.  Why, 


THE   GARDEN   OF   EDEN.         181 

when  lias  the  world  been  "  safe,"  we  should  like  to 
know?  We  have  its  history  for  seven  thousand 
years,  or  thereabouts,  and  it  has  never  been  in  a 
substantially  safe  condition  for  an  hour.  Society 
has  never  been  safe.  Civilization  has  never  been 
safe.  The  people  have  never  been  safe.  Human 
rights  have  never  been  safe.  Keligion  has  never 
been  safe.  Nothing  that  pertains  to  the  full  intel 
lectual  or  moral  stature  of  manhood  has  been  safe. 
The  great  earth  has  been  overwhelmed  by  a  flood. 
Geologists  tell  us,  and  astronomers  endorse  what 
they  say,  that  it  has,  at  some  period  of  its  existence, 
been  run  into  by  a  comet ;  and  how  do  we  know 
that  even  now,  away  off  millions  upon  millions  of 
miles  distant,  some  wandering  meteor  in  outer  space 
is  not  on  its  way  to  knock  this  our  planet  into  a 
universal  smash  ?  But  you  mean  the  intellectual, 
the  moral  world.  No  matter,  even  in  that  view  the 
world  has  never  been  safe  since  ADAM  and  EVE 
were  created  and  placed  in  the  Garden  of  Eden. 
By  the  way,  that  was  a  beautiful  allegory  of  the  first 
man  and  woman,  and  the  Garden  of  Eden.  It  was 
humanity  devoid  of  sin — living  intelligences  that 
had  done  no  evil.  They  were  supremely  happy, 
because  they  were  good.  The  Garden  of  Eden, 
with  all  its  beautiful  productions,  its  flowers,  its 
fruits,  its  fountains  and  running  streams,  its  shady 
groves,  its  green  lawns  and  its  singing-birds,  was 
the  human  heart  overflowing  with  contentment  and 
joy,  before  wickedness  invaded  it,  to  poison  its 


182  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

future,  to  sow  remorse,  and  sorrow,  and  strife,  wlierc 
virtue  and  peace  only  had  before  thriven. 

But  the  world  was  in  danger,  even  while  ADAM 
and  EVE  were  in  the  garden  of  Eden.  There  was 
danger  that  EVE  would  eat  the  forbidden  fruit,  and 
then  tempt  ADAM  to  his  fall.  That  danger  was 
realized,  and  they  were  thrust  forth  into  the  outer 
world.  Was  there  less  danger  there  ?  Was  there 
no  danger  that  CAIN  should  become  a  murderer,  or 
that  ABEL  should  be  slain  ?  Pass  along  down  to 
the  time  of  NOAH.  Was  there  no  danger  that  the 
world  should  become  so  corrupt  that  God  would 
destroy  it  in  His  wrath?  Was  there  no  danger, 
when  there  could  be  found  among  all  the  millions  of 
living  men  and  women  of  the  world,  but  one  family 
worth  saving  from  the  destruction  wrhich  the  Deity 
had  denounced  against  the  human  race  ?  Was  there 
no  danger  at  a  later  period,  that  a  time  would  come 
when  the  only  just  man  in  all  the  world,  the  only 
one  that  was  without  a  fault,  without  one  stain  of 
sin,  one  that  was  pure  as  Heaven  is  pure,  should 
be  betrayed,  and  crucified  between  thieves  on  the 
cross?  Further  along  still,  was  there  no  danger 
when  moral  and  intellectual  darkness  hung  like  a 
pall  over  Europe,  when  the  religion  of  the  cross  had 
degenerated  into  a  senseless  mummery,  when  its  high 
and  holy  precepts  were  perverted  to  the  uses  of  op 
pression,  when  profligacy  characterized  the  priest 
hood,  and  a  brutalizing  bigotry  possessed  the  laity, 
was  there  no  danger  that  the  world  should  have 


NOT. KING  FREE   FROM   DANGER.  183 

gone  back  to  the  darkness  of  idolatry,  and  the  deg 
radation  of  heathenism?  Was  there  no  danger 
that  civilization  should  have  been  extinguished,  that 
human  liberty  should  have  become  an  obsolete  term, 
and  human  rights  have  been  obliterated  from  the 
vocabulary  of  the  world?  "Was  there  no  danger 
that  the  light  of  science  should  have  been  put  out, 
and  the  fountains  of  knowledge  that  have  since 
gushed  so  gloriously,  irrigating  and  fertilizing  these 
latter  days,  have  remained  sealed  forever  ?  Coming 
down  nearer  to  the  present,  was  there  no  danger 
when  infidelity  spread  over  Europe  like  a  consum 
ing  fire  ?  When  France,  then  the  strongest  and  the 
greatest,  the  most  elegant  and  refined  nation  in  the 
world,  bloated  with  infidelity,  and  teeming  with 
unspeakable  corruption,  in  the  great  legislative  con 
vocation  of  her  statesmen  decreed  that  "  there  was 
no  God,  and  that  death  was  an  eternal  sleep  ?"  Is 
there  no  danger  now,  to-day,  that  the  world,  in  the 
pride  of  its  fancied  progress  towards  perfectibility, 
shall  forget,  in  the  glory  of  the  present,  the  mighty 
sequence  of  the  future  ?  Is  religion  safe  ?  Are  hu 
man  rights  safe?  Are  governmental  institutions 
safe  ?  Are  the  public  morals  of  the  world  safe  ?  If 
the  world  is  safe,  why  is  it  that  every  philosopher, 
great  and  small,  whether  of  science,  morality,  gov 
ernment,  or  of  religion,  are  tinkering  it,  driving  a 
rivet  here,  and  soldering  up  a  crack  there,  polishing 
this  rusty  spot,  and  placing  a  strengthening  brace  in 
that  weak  place — all  patching,  and  mending,  and 


184  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

hammering  at  it  forever  ?  No  I  No !  The  world 
is  not  safe,  never  has  been  safe,  and  never  will  be 
safe  for  an  hour.  And  yet,  from  the  time  that  ADAM 
and  EVE  went  forth  from  the  garden  of  Eden,  chil 
dren  have  been  born  into  the  world.  Every  day, 
every  hour,  every  second  of  time  there  are  new  in 
telligences,  fresh  from  the  hand  of  Deity,  added  to 
the  aggregated  intellectuality  of  the  world.  New 
souls  are  thrown  forward  on  the  wing,  to  perch  for 
a  little  while  in  this  world,  and  rest  at  last  somewhere 
in  eternity.  Childhood,  we  admit,  is  an  institution 
that  exercises  a  conservative  influence  over  the 
world,  but  the  power  of  rendering  the  world  "safe  " 
is  a  task  too  gigantic  for  its  accomplishment. 

"  We  talk  of  ADAM  and  EVE  as  having  been,  before  the  fall, 
in  a  very  happy  condition ;  but  one  thing  they  missed — they 
were  never  children." 

True.  We  never  thought  of  that.  ADAM  never 
played  marbles.  He  never  played  "  hokey."  He 
never  drove  a  tandem  of  boys  with  a  string.  He 
never  skated  on  a  pond  or  played  "ball,"  or  rode 
down  hill  on  a  hand-sleigh.  And  EVE,  she  never 
made  a  playhouse  ;  she  never  took  tea  with  another 
little  girl  from  the  little  tea-table  set  out  with  the 
toy  tea  things ;  she  never  rolled  a  hoop  or  jumped 
a  rope,  or  pieced  a  baby  quilt,  or  dressed  a  doll. 
They  never  played  "blind man's  buff,"  or  "pussy 
wants  a  corner,"  or  "hurly  burly,"  or  any  of  the 


ADAM  AND  EVE  NO  CHILDHOOD.  185 

games  with 'which  childhood  disports  itself.  How 
blank  their  age  must  have  been,  wherein  no  memo 
ries  of  early  youth  came  welling  up  in  their  hearts, 
no  visions  of  childhood  floating  back  from  the  long 
past,  no  mother's  voice  chanting  a  lullaby  to  the 
ear  of  fancy  in  the  still  hours  of  the  night,  no 
father's  words  of  kindness  speaking  from  the  grave 
in  the  church-yard  where  he  sleeps !  ADAM  and 
EVE,  and  they  alone  of  all  the  countless  millions  of 
men  and  women  that  have  ever  lived,  had  no  child 
hood. 


XIV. 

DRKAMS. 

"WELL,"  said  I  to  my  wife,  "there  is  nothing 
new  under  the  sun,  even  in  dreams." 

A  few  mornings  since,  as  we  sat  at  breakfast,  I 
had  recounted  to  that  lady  and  our  Nelly  a  curious 
dream,  which  had  occupied  me  through  part  of  the 
night,  the  novelty  of  which  was,  that  at  a  large 
family  dinner  I  was  charmingly  surprised  by  hear 
ing  the  whole  party  chant  a  grace  before  taking 
seats  at  the  table.  The  thing  was  unique,  as  well 
as  grace-fill,  and  so  transparently  proper,  that  I 
wondered  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  before. 

"Well,  sir,  as  the  gentle  people  say,  what  do  you 
think  ?  I  find,  to-night,  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  Charles 
Taylor,  published  in  the  Tribune,  that  chanting  of 
grace  before  meat  is  actually  practised  at  this  very 
day  among  the  Chinese ;  and  it's  not  unlikely,  my 
dear  Editor,  though  I  grieve  to  say  it,  destroying, 
unmercifully  as  it  does,  the  originality  of  the  most 
exquisite  night-thought  which  I  ever  had — I  say  it 
is  quite  probable  that  those  shaven-headed,  pig- 
tailed  chop-stickers,  have  been  doing  it  for  thou- 


TKIFLES  LIGHT  AS   AIR.        187 

sands  of  years.   So  much  for  trying  to  dream  some 
thing  new. 

However,  it  was  new  to  me,  as  a  new  star  to  an 
astronomer.  I  am  quite  confident  the  thought  had 
never  entered  my  brain  before,  unless,  indeed,  it 
had  crept  in  slyly  and  taken  a  place  in  some  remote 
corner,  without  waking  my  consciousness.  Is  this 
possible,  Mr.  Editor?-  Is  it  not  an  absurdity?  Can 
we  be  taken  possession  of  by  thoughts  and  mental 
processes,  without  being  a  parjry  to  the  transaction  ? 
as,  after  leaving  our  hall  door  open  all  day,  we  may 
be  surprised  by  an  interloper  at  midnight,  who 
hasn't  so  much  as  turned  a  key  or  raised  a  window 
to  effect  an  entrance.  Are  we  to  be  confronted  by 
ghosts,  who  claim  an  acquaintance,  a  place  in  our 
house,  and  a  seat  at  our  table,  whom  we  never  saw 
in  the  flesh,  and  all  upon  the  villanous  plea  that 
they  had  a  nice  time,  one  day,  in  our  cellar  or  gar 
ret?  Heaven  only  knows  what  vividness,  what 
terrible  meaning  may  one  day  gleam  upon  us  from 
thoughts  light  as .  air,  which  we  play  with,  "or  toss 
from  the  mind  as  trifles  and  things  of  no  account, 
or  from  that  daily  crowd  to  which  we  open  all  our 
doors  and  windows,  and  would  take  off  the  roof 
from  our  house,  if  necessary,  to  let  them  in.  Must 
we  not  be  amused  and  diverted  ?  Are  we  not  to 
have  a  good  time,  I  ask  you  ?  Is  not  this  the  ob 
ject  of  life — the  be-all  and  the  end-all — that  we 
should  have  a  good ^ time;  and  have  it  right  away, 


188  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

to-day,  because  we  are  a  fast  people,  and  wide 
awake  ? 

Any  one  who  follows  up  the  line  of  these  sugges 
tions  without  a  cold  shudder,  must  have  a  cool  brain 
and  high  expectations.  No  doubt,  there  are  thou 
sands  in  the  world  who  would  gladly  be  excused, 
if  it  were  possible,  from  this  mysterious  life,  as  being 
too  weighty,  too  solemn,  too  terrible  in  its  possible 
conclusions. 

The  process  of  thpught — the  way  it  acts — the 
place  where  it  lives — the  quo  modo  of  its  first  pulsa 
tion,  as  a  living  thing — something  which  a  moment 
ago  was  not,  had  no  place  in  the  universe  (to  me), 
and  now  is — has  begun  life — has  character  and 
meaning,  and  a  length  of  days  which  is  eternal — 
will  always  be  with  me,  whether  I  choose,  or  do  not 
choose  —  which  I  cannot  burn,  or  bury  (beyond 
resurrection),  which  I  can  give  to  another,  but  must 
keep  always  the  stereotype  from  which  it  was  first 
printed — which,  in  fact,  is  now,  not  a  thing  external 
to  me,  as  my  coat  or  my  body  even;  but  a  part  of 
myself,  the  destruction  of  which  never  can  take 
place,  trifling  as  it  may  be,  without  involving  the 
destruction  of  my  whole  being,  so  that  if  that  die, 
then  I  die  with  it — all  this,  not  so  much  from  its 
mystery  as  from  its  plainness,  its  demonstrative 
horror,  and  its  reach  into  the  infinite  and  the  abso 
lute,  I  dare  not  discuss.  Nor  would  I  sully,  with 
my  tame  conjecture,  the  starry  grandeur  of  this 


CHRISTIANIZING  THE  WORLD.  189 

topic — its  beauty  of  possible  result — its  fellowship  of 
glory  with  the  Father  of  Spirits. 

But  it  is  easy  to  imagine  that  the  perception  of 
this  truth  in  all  its  bearings  would  Christianize  the 
world  in  a  moment,  so  that  for  the  first  time  since 
men  have  gone  abroad  in  the  world,  there  would  be 
a  universal  pause  among  all  nations,  and  kindred, 
and  tongues — the  noisy  business  of  life  would  cease, 
and  there  would  be  heard  in  the  crowded  city,  and 
upon  the  seas,  and  in  the  valleys,  and  upon  the 
mountains,  only  the  voice  of  prayer  and  praise  and 
supplication  to  the  Most  High.  Something  like  this 
is  doubtless  imagined  by  those  who  hold  that  the 
intellectual  and  the  moral  necessarily  carry  with  them 
the  Christian  influence ;  whose  faith  is,  that  to  see, 
is  to  believe ;  to  know,  is  to  adopt  and  to  act.  But 
this  broad  way  of  suggestion,  looking  apparently 
into  the  darkest  mystery  of  our  being,  is  closed  (not 
far  down)  by  an  iron  door,  whose  bolts  and  bars 
yield  only  to  the  touch  of  God  himself.  The  pal 
pable  sight  of  Hell  and  Heaven,  the  darkness  and 
the  light,  the  confusion  and  the  order,  the  woe  un 
utterable,  and  the  peace  which  passeth  all  under 
standing,  would  offer  no  barrier  or  inducement  to 
the  soul  which  chooses  to  be  guided  by  its  own 
will,  and  to  be  its  own  God.  This  must  be ;  i.  e.  it 
must  be  that  the  intuitions  of  this  life  as  to  the  next, 
however  feeble,  are,  in  the  main,  correct.  One  can 
not  imagine  what  Heaven  is  in  its  extent,  but  he 
can  imagine,  and  does  imagine,  and  that  truly,  whe- 


190  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

tlier  it  would  suit  him.  Therefore  it  is  that  all 
philosophy,  all  morality,  all  science,  all  churches 
and  ministries,  all  struggle  and  labor  and  prayer, 
are  dead  as  ashes  for  all  purposes  of  an  hereafter, 
unless  given  to  Christ,  who  alone,  as  he  created  the 
world  out  of  nothing,  can  give  to  these  feeble  begin 
nings  for  him  who  seeks  them,  honor  and  glory  and 
immortality.  To  every  child  of  Adam,  who  goes 
daily  and  always  to  Ilim,  and  asks,  believing,  Christ 
says,  Let  there  be  light!  and  in  a  moment,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  a  new  creation  is  made  for  him, 
holy  angels  are  sent  down  to  him,  and  all  agencies 
of  trouble,  and  sorrow,  and  struggle,  and  doubt,  and 
fear,  and  temptation,  and  all  powers  and  principal 
ities  resident  on  high, — are  enlisted  henceforth  in 
his  behalf;  his  name  is  at  once  written  down  in  the 
book  of  life,  and  a  white  robe  is  made  ready  for  him, 
and  a  seat  set  apart  for  him  in  the  starry  courts, — 
so  that  now  there  is  no  more  death  to  that  soul, — 
it  has  entered  already  into  life  everlasting. 

But  we  were  talking,  Mr.  Editor,  of  dreams.  I 
trust,  sir,  that  you  are  still  in  practice.  The  magni 
ficent  specimen  you  gave  us  last  summer,  proves 
you  a  splendid  dreamer.  After  editing,  all  day,  the 
recreation  of  dreams,  the  wide  area,  the  ease  of  ac 
complishment,  the  might  Olympian  of  that  nodding 
land,  must  be  especially  refreshing.  Or  do  you 
merely  repeat  and  worry  over  things  already  done, 
thoughts  already  stale,  and  pictures  beautiful  in  the 
making,  but  now  to  the  mind  only  so  much  paint 


THE   PHANTASIES   OF   DKEAMS.  191 

and  canvas?  Do  you  find  yourself  pulling  at  the 
same  oar  at  night,  which  you  pulled  in  the  morn 
ing  ?  Lifting  trout  again,  or  dropping  a  two-pound 
er,  just  as  you  have  him  almost  in  hand?  Do  you 
fall  into  Crooked  Lake,  now-a-days  ?  Do  you  have 
sunrises  at  midnight  ?  Do  you  see  great  wonders 
and  marvels,  bright  and  glorious,  all  in  the  dark 
ness  of  your  chamber  ?  Do  you  travel  before  you 
have  so  much  as  thought  of  your  trowsers,  and  see 
all  the  strange  lands  and  stranger  people?  To 
whom,  also,  you  make  speeches  and  wind  up  al 
ways  with  "America  and  the  Albany  Register  for 
ever?"  Do  you  edit  in  Chinese  and  Persian,  and 
chat  pleasantly  with  the  Czar,  as  to  how  he  likes 
the  war? 

To  take  a  meat  supper,  quite  late,  with  pickles 
and  old  cheese,  and  in  due  time  have  what  you  may 
call — the  consequences,  is  one  way  of  dreaming, 
but  dreadfully  common.  To  have  faces  about 
the  bed-side  grinning  and  expanding  and  multiply 
ing  into  hundreds  is  more  artistic,  but  has  the  same 
kind  of  vulgar  unpleasantness.  It  is  not  enjoyable. 

Perhaps  the  most  common,  but  full  of  character 
and  import,  is  that  kind  of  bewilderment  which 
may  be  called  the  dream  difficult.  To  be  always 
striving  at  impossible  things  and  saying  to  yourself 
"it's  all  fudge,  it's  no  kind  of  use,"  but  still  tp  go  on 
grasping  and  pulling  again  at  this  intangible  some 
thing,  which,  all  fudge  as  it  is,  quite  refuses  to  be 
pulled  or  grasped.  To  go  about  a  room  in  the  dark 


192  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

involving  and  revolving,  searching  for  a  door 
handle.  To  feel  for  matches  which,  when  you  find 
them,  refuse  to  go  off,  and  at  last,  when  they  do, 
to  wait  through  long  palpitating  hours  until  the 
full  blaze  of  light  pierces  the  room  before  you  dare 
put  naked  eyes  afloat  in  the  air.  To  have  a  con 
sciousness  that  the  shutters  in  strict  propriety  ought 
to  be  closed,  as  your  room  is  on  the  ground  floor 
and  opens  into  all  out-doors.  Then,  of  a  sudden, 
to  be  patiently  busy  (though  it  is  a  midsummer 
night)  sweeping  the  snow  off  the  piazza,  and  saying 
to  yourself  "  I  have  now  swept  away  exactly  six 
inches,  and  if  it  snows  all  night  I  shall  know  direct 
ly  in  the  morning  that  there  -is  a  foot  of  snow," — 
then,  on  your  return,  to  undertake  the  shutters, 
which  doing  quickly,  a  sleigh  with  four  horses 
heavily  apparelled  with  bells  goes  by  on  the  jump, 
but  as  you  knew  before  that  you  were  dreaming, 
you  smile,  and  immediately  detect  it  all  as  a  decep 
tion,  "  it  is  merely  the  sound  of  your  breath  in  your 
left  nostril ;  if  you  listen  one  way  it's  like  a  trumpet^ 
but  another  way,  it's  like  a  bell."  As  you  stand 
by  the  window  and  discuss  this,  your  father,  or 
some  friend  who  occupies  the  next  room,  comes  to 
the  door,  and  asks,  in  a  soft  voice,  "  what  is  it  you 
are  talking  about  so  much."  To  this,  you  reply,  in 
the  same  soft  way,  "  that  you  are  very  sorry,  but 
positively  you  did  not  think  you  had  opened  your 
lips'  to  say  any  thing,  in  short,  you  had  said  nothing 
at  all,  and  your  friend  must  have  imagined  it ;  the 


NOTHING  NEW  UNDER  THE  SUN.  193 

niglit  was  dark  and  the  wind  was  noisy,  it  was  easy 
to  be  deceived,  and  any -way  it  was  of  no  conse 
quence,  as  it  was  all  a  dream." 

The  sleeping  thought,  my  dear  Editor,  (I  have 
done  with  the  dream — the  above  is  an  exact  copy 
of  one  as  far  as  remembered,)  I  say  the  sleeping 
thought  tells  even  better  what  we  are,  (hidden  away 
in  the  possibilities  of  this  human  nature,  which,  wak 
ing  or  sleeping,  is  one  always,)  than  the  waking 
thought.  It  tells  fearfully,  but  unerringly,  and,  as 
I  believe,  truly.  If  a  man  desires  not  to  wrestle 
with  perpetual  night-mare  in  the  life  to  come,  let 
him  look  well  to  his  dreams,  while  he  has  them. 
For  dream-time  will  soon  be  over  with  us,  and  we 
shall  stand,  then,  in  the  broad,  unfettered,  unsleep 
ing  life,  with  no  cloak  to  cover,  no  indigestions  to 
father  the  sins  of  the  heart,  and  what  we  carry  with 
us,  will  be  our  companion  and  keep-sake  forever. 
I  look  upon  the  dream  as  my  better  angel,  who 
shows  me,  now  and  then,  gleams  of  the  very  Hell 
itself,  that  I  may  decide  now,  whether  I  will  make 
that  my  home  hereafter,  whether  it  will  be  pleasant 
to  be  a  part  of  that  dark  confusion.  But  now,  it  is 
morning — thank  God,  it  is  still  to-day — it  is  the 
light  of  the  sun  that  crowns  these  heavens — it  is 
still  the  world  of  dreams. 

Yours,         . 


"  '  Well,'  said  I  to  my  wife, '  there  is  nothing  new  under  the 
sun,  even  in  dreams.'  " 


194  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

We  shall  not  undertake  to  follow  you,  friend 
MARGINS,  in  your  metaphysical  dissertation  on 
dreams.  Your  theory  as  far  as  we,  being  of  un 
sophisticated  and  plain  understanding,  can  compre 
hend  it,  may  be  all  right ;  we  shall  neither  dispute 
nor  endorse  it,  but  the  fact  asserted  above,  we  deny. 
We  insist  that  there  is  something  "  new  in  dreams." 
We  remember  one  dream  of  our  own,  that,  by  its 
perfect  distinctness  as  well  as  its  comicality,  made 
a  deep  impression  upcn  our  mind,  and  it  remains 
fixed  in  our  memory.  There  was  such  a  seeming 
reality  about  it,  such  vividness  and  clearness  in  all 
things,  that  were  it  not  utterly  opposed  to  all  our 
experience  in  life,  and  the  knowledge  of  its  impos 
sibility,  we  should  almost  doubt  whether  in  truth  it 
were  not  sober  fact  instead  of  a  vision  of  the  night. 
In  order  that  we  may  be  understood,  we  must  be 
permitted  to  describe  a  certain  locality  as  it  was 
long  ago,  and  as  the  recollection  of  our  boyhood 
paints  it,  for  it  is  "  the  spot  that  we  were  born  in." 
It  is  all  changed  now,  and  has  been  for  many  years. 
And  who  with  white  hairs  upon  his  head  can  say 
that  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  are  not  changed  ? 
That  the  ancient  landmarks  have  not  been  remov 
ed?  That  the  things  that  memory  calls  up  from 
the  long  past,  the  trees,  the  stumps,  the  plum-trees, 
the  cattle  and  sheep  in  the  pasture  behind  the 
house,  the  meadow  behind  the  barn,  and  the  old 
house  and  barn  themselves,  and  the  fences,  are  all 
there  still?  Go  back,  our  dear  MARGINS,  to  the 


PURE   SPRING  WATER.  195 

place  of  your  nativity,  with  all  your  young  memo 
ries  clinging  around  your  heart,  and  note  how  sadness 
will  creep  over  you,  and  how  the  tear  will  start,  as 
you  miss  the  things  that  you  remember  and  loved 
so  well. 

Our  father's  farm  lay  out  at  the  head  of  the 
Crooked  Lake,  in  the  pleasant  valley  that  stretches 
away  westward  from  that  beautiful  sheet  of  water. 
The  land  rose  with  a  gentle  slope  from  the  pebbly 
beach,  and  a  broad  meadow  lay  between  the  shore 
and  the  old  farm-house,  which  stood  some  fifty  rods 
from  the  Lake.  Midway  between  the  house  and 
the  Lake,  a  spring  of  the  coldest  and  purest  water 
came  gushing  up,  around  which  stood  a  cluster  of 
some  half  dozen  maples  that  had  been  left  when  the 
old  forest  was  cleared  away.  The  long  arms  of 
these  ancient  trees  lovingly  entwined,  and  the  thick 
foliage  that  covered  them  in  the  summer-time,  made 
a  dense  cool  shade  all  around  the  spring,  and  its 
waters  being  soft,  it  was  the  place  where  the  wash 
ing  for  the  family  during  the  warm  season  was 
always  done. 

There  was  an  elderly  woman,  who  with  her  half- 
idiot  son,  lived  in  a  log  house  on  a  corner  of  the 
farm,  a  kind  of  dependent  upon,  and  was  chiefly 
supported  by  the  family.  We  remember  "  Aunt 
PEGGY,"  as  she  was  always  called,  and  "  Silly 
DICK,"  well.  They  were  never  for  an  hour  sepa 
rated.  Wherever  the  mother  went,  there  was  sure 
to  be  her  idiot  son.  We  have  no  recollection  of 


196  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

ever  seeing  them  apart.  If  "  Aunt  PEGGY"  was  at 
work  in  the  house,  DICK  would  be  sitting  on  the 
door-sill  if  it  was  summer-time,  or  if  it  was  winter, 
in  the  corner  waiting,  and  watching  patiently  till 
the  work  was  done  and  his  mother  should  go  home. 
Among  the  few  words  that  he  was  able  to  learn, 
that  of  "mother"  was  most  frequently  on  his  lips. 
He  was  a  gentle,  harmless  creature,  always  obedient 
and  affectionate,  leaning  upon  his  mother  for  pro 
tection  with  the  perfect  confidence  of  childhood, 
though  in  stature  and  strength  almost  a  man.  The 
affections  and  care  of  Aunt  PEGGY  were  all  centered 
upon  Silly  DICK,  and  her  mother's  instincts  clung 
the  closer  to  him  because  of  his  imbecility.  Poor 
DICK  and  his  mother  have  been  dead  many,  many 
years.  lie  died  on  a  Tuesday,  and  on  the  following 
Monday  she  was  laid  in  a  grave  by  his  side.  The 
only  tie  that  remained,  the  last  link  that  bound  her 
to  life  was  broken,  and  she  died  from  very  grief  for 
the  loss  of  her  idiot  son. 

Aunt  PEGGY  used  to  do  the  washing  for  the  fam 
ily  down  by  "  the  Spring,"  in  the  summer-time, 
under  the  shade  of  the  maples.  Silly  DICK  would 
bring  water  for  her  from  the  spring,  and  see  to  the 
fire  under  the  kettles,  and  lay  around  on  the  grass 
watching  his  mother,  when  he  could  not  be  useful 
in  aiding  her  labors.  They  seem  to  be  present  to 
us  now  as  we  remember  them  in  our  childhood,  she 
humming  a  simple  tune,  or  singing  some  nursery 
song  or  ballad,  and  he  under  the  shadow  of  the 


A  D  K  E  A  M     OF     <?HILDHOOD.         197 

trees,  talking  in  his  silly  way  to  the  birds  among 
the  branches,  or  to  himself,  as  he  lay  stretched  at 
length  upon  the  grass,  or  looking  at  his  own  face 
reflected  from  the  bottom  of  the  spring,  and  won 
dering,  perhaps,  who  it  was  that  was  always  watch 
ing  him  from  away  down  in  the  water.  Those  old 
maples,  that  old  farm-house,  that  meadow  with  all 
the  old  things  we  remember  so  well,  are  all  gone. 
A  flourishing  village,  with  hundreds  of  houses,  and 
stores,  and  small  gardens,  and  streets,  cover  what 
was  then  the  meadow,  and  that  spring  itself  is  con 
ducted  under  ground  to  the  lake.  This  great 
change  has  been  going  on  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury,  and  it  is  only  by  groping  among  the  memo 
ries  of  our  boyhood,  that  we  can  recall  the  spot  in 
its  primitive  beauty,  and  as  it  was  long,  long  ago. 

Well,  not  many  years  back,  as  we  were  sleeping 
upon  our  bed  here  in  this  great  city,  we  dreamed  a 
dream.  "  We  were  a  boy  again,"  and  in  the  mead 
ow  at  the  head  of  Crooked  Lake  as  it  was  of  old. 
There  was  the  farm-house,  and  our  father  and 
mother,  sisters  and  brothers.  There  was  the  path 
down  through  the  meadow;  there  were  the  old 
maples,  with  their  summer  foliage,  all  bright  and 
green,  and  there  was  the  spring  itself,  its  crys 
tal  waters  bubbling  up  and  flowing  in  a  little  rivu 
let  over  the  sand  and  pebbles  to  the  Lake.  There 
lay  the  Lake,  sleeping  in  calmness  and  beauty. 
There  were  the  forest-covered  hills  on  the  right 
hand  and  on  the  left,  there  the  high  promontories 


198  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

around  which  the  smooth  waters  seemed  to  creep 
and  hide  themselves.  And  last  of  all,  there  was 
Aunt  PEGGY  by  the  spring  washing,  and  Silly  DICK 
was  on  the  grass  watching  and  talking  to  the  birds 
that  were  hopping  about,  and  singing  and  twitter 
ing  in  the  branches  above  him.  The  vision  was  all 
perfect ;  not  a  feature,  not  a  tint  was  wanting.  "We 
saw  and  felt  as  of  old,  as  if  thirty  years  of  our  life 
had  been  obliterated,  and  nothing  of  its  cares  or 
trials,  its  struggles  or  hard  experience,  remained. 
Everything  on  this  side  of  our  boyhood  was  clean 
wiped  out.  The  scene  had  not  to  us  even  the  charm 
of  novelty.  The  sun  was  shining  bright  and  warm 
in  the  sky,  and  it  seemed  pleasant  to  be  under  the 
shadow  of  those  old  maples,  as  a  refuge  from  his 
rays. 

Darkness  gathered  away  down  on  the  Lake ;  a 
dense  black  cloud  seemed  to  come  up  out  of  the 
water,  and  from  behind  the  high  promontories,  not 
rising  slowly  and  majestically  like  thundercaps 
from  behind  mountains,  but  heaving  and  swelling 
and  rolling  at  first  like  the  billows  of  ocean,  and 
then  rising  in  dense  columns  towards  the  sky, 
wreathing  and  swirling,  and  twisting  upward  like 
the  smoke  that  goes  up  from  a  burning  building  in 
the  night,  but  infinitely  blacker  and  deeper,  and  ex 
tending  all  across  the  eastern  sky.  Red  lightnings 
flashed  upward  and  downward,  and  crosswise,  and 
every  way,  trailing  like  fiery  serpents  across  the 
face  of  the  cloud.  Wild  geese  and  ducks,  and 


AN   EXTRAORDINARY   PRAYER.    199 

eagles,  and  osprays,  came  sweeping  in  flocks,  and 
screaming  in  mortal  terror  to  the  westward  over  us. 
A  mist  gathered  in  the  air,  and  though  it  was  noon 
day,  yet  a  shadowy  and  spectral  twilight  gathered 
around  us.  An  immense  ball  of  fire  shot  like  a  blaz 
ing  comet  across  the  sky  from  the  approaching  dark 
ness.  The  thunder  growled  with  horrible  intense- 
ness,  shaking  the  very  earth  to  its  centre.  To  us 
all  this  war  of  the  elements  seemed  neither  strange 
nor  terrible.  We  had  no  idea  of  danger,  no  appre 
hension  of  harm.  Not  so,  however,  with  the  poor 
washerwoman ;  but  one  idea  seemed  to  have  a  place  in 
her  mind,  and  that  was  that  the  day  of  judgment  had 
come,  at  a  time  when  she  least  expected  it.  She  tried 
to  pray,  but  every  prayer  ended  with  "  The  house 
that  Jack  built."  She  essayed  to  sing  a  hymn,  but 
every  effort  ended  in  Yankee  Doodle.  Try  as  she 
might,  exert  all  her  powers,  aided  by  the  mortal  terror 
that  was  upon  her,  every  verse  would  end  in  Yankee 
Doodle.  Every  strain,  however  devotional  in  the  be 
ginning,  was  sure  to  close  with  Yankee  Doodle,  till  in 
utter  hopelessness  her  hands  dropped  by  her  side,  and 
in  a  voice  choked  by  the  agony  of  despair,  she  cried, 
"  Lord  help  us,  my  poor  boy,  what  kind  of  a  song 
will  that  be  to  sing  in  Heaven  ?"  To  us  who  felt  no 
sense  of  danger,  there  was  something  so  infinitely 
ludicrous  in  the  poor  woman's  astonishment  and 
dismay,  that  we  could  not  restrain  our  risibility, 
and  "  What  in  the  name  of  all  that's  funny  are  you 
laughing  at  now?"  said  our  wife,  starting  up  in 


200  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

amazement  at  the  vehemence  of  our  cachinnations, 
scattering  the  dream,  and  the  tempest,  and  the 
meadow,  the  old  maples,  and  the  spring,  and  poor 
Aunt  PEGGY,  and  Silly  DICK,  like  visions  of  the 
night,  as  they  all  were. 


XV. 

THE    BRIGHT    MORNING-AND    JULY. 

THE  day  has  gone  by.  Like  the  amen  to  prayer, 
comes  the  night.  The  night,  too,  has  gone,  now, 
and  like  the  smile  of  God  comes  the  morning. 

The  sun  is  riding  high  in  the  heavens,  but  finds 
me  loitering  and  dreamy.  The  intense  vitality  of 
this  July  day, — the  richness  of  this  beautiful  morn 
ing,  only  make  me  shrink  within  myself — paralyz 
ing  instead  of  strengthening ;  prostrating,  not  up 
lifting.  I  am  thinking,  too,  of  a  brighter  day  than 
this — a  purer  glory.  Oh  thou  kind  Heaven,  for 
give  me  if  I  dream  too  much,  and  act  too  little  for 
that  pure  day, — that  golden  morning  of  which  every 
sunrise  here  is  a  prophecy — every  noon-day,  a  wit 
ness  and  proof!  For  it  is  not  far  away  from  earth, 
where  the  sun  shines  on  forever.  It  is  almost  as 
though  one  might  stand  on  some  mountain  top  and 
reach  up  a  hand  into  the  living  waves  where  sun 
rise  and  sunset  meet  and  clasp  each  other,  destroy 
ing  night. 

How  still  it  is,  to-day  1  Soft  as  mezzotints,  and 
as  motionless  on  the  grass  lie  the  shadows  of  the 
9 


202  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

maples,  spotted  with  the  light.     One  might  think 
that  Nature,  all  clad  with  the  glory  of  God,  had 
suddenly  ceased  to  breathe,  and  were  waiting  the 
announcement  of  something  new  to  be.     But  it  is 
not  that.     The  announcement  has  been  made  al 
ready.     Death  has  been  busy  again,  (he  who  parts 
the  day  and  the  night,  so  that  they  meet  no  more, 
have  no  more  fellowship,  one  with  the  other,)  he 
has  been  busy  again,  and  has  taken  one  more  of 
our  young  friends.    The  swift  lightning  brought  us 
the  news,  last  night,  and  to-day  the  world  is  changed. 
It  is  not  the  same  world  it  was  yesterday.     She, 
who  is  gone,  is  not  a  part  of  it,  to-day.     She  is  liv 
ing  yet ;  the  pulses  of  her  being,  in  whatever  won 
derful  way  God  has  provided  for  her,  are  beating 
yet,  and  will  live  on  forever — but  not  to  our  sight. 
And  what  have  we  had  to  do  with  this  matter — this 
new  life  to  her — this  change,  beyond  which,  and  in 
which,  is  no  change ;  we,  who  in  times  past,  have 
been  near  her,  for  so  many  bright  days,  so  many 
evenings   made  glad  with  the  music   and  joy  of 
youth  ?     Oh,  it  -will  not  do  to  turn  away  from  this 
question,  for  it  comes  home  to  us,  now,  and  it  will 
come  home  to  us  again,  in  the  day  of  judgment. 
If  through  all  her  bright  or  clouded  days  here  upon 
earth,  we  have  been  pleading  with  God  to  prepare 
her  for  something  purer,   brighter,  holier — if  we 
have  sought  mightily,  and  as  for  our  own  souls, 
that  Jesus  Christ,  the  righteous,  would  come  down 
and  make  her  His  child,  and  number  her  with  those 


THE   DEATH  OF  SUSIE.          203 

who  shall  sit  with  him  in  glory — doubtless  it  is  all 
written  down  in  heaven,  and  will  keep  well — the 
ink  will  not  fade — the  print  of  that  record  will  be 
bright,  even  in  the  great  day  of  account. 

If  we  have  not  done  this,  it  is  too  late  now.  We 
may  go  to  our  closets  and  bend  low  before  the 
Infinite  Majesty — we  may  know  that  God  is  there 
— as  leaning  in  the  dark  on  the  arm  of  a  friend, 
whom  we  see  not ;  we  may  feel  the  touch,  and  know 
that  Jesus  is  there,  ready  to  save  to  the  uttermost, 
the  living, — ready  to  hear  and  answer  petitions  for 
the  living,  for  whatever  other  child  of  our  heart 
may  not  yet  be  on  the  road  to  Heaven, — but  we  can 
ask  nothing  more  for  Susie, — she  is  gone. 

At  such  a  time  we  pause  in  our  routine,  and  take 
new  bearings  and  stand-points.  Life  becomes 
touched  with  a  higher  value,  and  we  ask  as  to  this 
question  of  values,  what  kind  of  currency  passes  in 
Heaven,  what  exchange  rules  there — what  transac 
tions  are  going  on  there, — what  is  the  fashion  of 
life  there,  and  what  the  speech  and  apparel  of  that 
High  Court.  In  this  way,  God  calls  to  us,  the 
angels  call  to  us,  the  friends  gone  before  call  to  us, 
the  whole  world,  and  the  brute  and  inanimate  things 
of  God,  cry  aloud  to  us.  The  sunshine  playing  in 
spots  under  the  trees,  becomes  purer,  brighter,  more 
like  a  thing  of  life  itself;  as  though  it  would  plead 
with  us,  and  win  us  away  from  the  world  and  its 
noisy  doings.  "  Look  at  me,"  it  says — as  we  stop 
musing  under  the  maples — "  and  see  how  pure  and 


20-i  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

bright  I  am,  doing  only  the  will  of  God,  for  He 
sends  me  and  gives  me  wings  to  travel  with,  and 
all  the  strength  I  need.  Oh,  come  away  from  the 
world,  my  friend,  and  busy  yourself  with  something 
handsome,  something  worthy  of  yourself  and  your 
Creator." 

At  such  times,  also,  a  passage,  say  a  sentence 
from  a  book,  some  forgotten  author,  or  forgotten 
prayer,  will  enter  and  quite  take  possession  of  the 
mind,  driving  out  all  other  thought  with  its  inces 
sant  repetition,  like  the  face  of  a  child  whom  we 
love,pressing,  importunate,  not  to  be  refused. 

Within  the  last  ten  years  my  father  and  myself 
have  visited  occasionally  an  old  homestead  near 
New  Haven,  of  which  now  nothing  is  left  save  a 
small  new  stone  house,  standing  however  on  the 
old  ground,  and  with  the  same  hills  and  meadows 
about  it,  which  were  there  when  it  was  my  father's 
home — the  home  of  his  childhood.  Our  object  is, 
sometimes,  to  stop  at  the  old  place,  or  to  make  a 
few  inquiries  among  the  neighbors,  and  sometimes 
merely  to  take  one  more  look,  as  we  pass  by ;  for 
there  are  none  that  know  us  there  now — not  one. 
If  they  remember  us  at  all,  it  is  probably  only  as 
the  strange  old  gentleman  and  his  son,  who  some 
times  stop  and  ask  questions  about  people  who  lived 
there  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago — and  who  cares 
about  such  people  ?  Why,  they  are  all  dead,  mostly. 
So  my  father  says.  There  is  scarcely  a  man  or 
woman  in  all  New  Haven  who  remembers  him. 


AN   OBLIGING  HOST.  205 

M  All  gone,"  says  my  father,  "  all  gone — every  one 
of  them  that  I  used  to  know." 

What  attraction  there  is  to  him  in  this  solitary 
ride  I  can  hardly  say,  but  perhaps  he  likes  it  best, 
that  he  is  not  interrupted  in  his  meditations  therea 
bouts,  by  friends  on  the  look-out.  It  suits  him, 
perhaps,  that  they  do  not  come  crowding  about  the 
carriage,  and  urging  him  to  stop  and  stay  with  them. 
What  are  they  to  him,  or  he  to  them  ?  They  are 
not  of  the  same  generation. 

On  our  last  pilgrimage,  only  one  summer  ago, 
we  stopped,  as  usual,  at  the  Park  House  by  the 
College  Green,  and  after  the  usual  questioning, 
were  recognized  by  the  landlord,  who  always  makes 
amends  for  not  knowing  us,  by  extraordinary  civil 
ities,  after  making  us  out.  We  have,  usually,  the 
front  first  floor  rooms,  and  if  in  season,  the  landlord 
always  remembers  my  father's  partiality  for  the 
dragon  oysters,  and  supplies  us  three  times  a  day. 
Early  on  the  morning  after  our  last  arrival,  we 
started  for  our  drive.  My  father  was  urgent  for 
a  one-horse  wagon,  and  I  as  urgent  for  an  open 
double  carriage  and  driver,  and  so  we  started  in  a 
roomy  barouche,  with  the  top  thrown  back,  and  a 
trusty  driver,  who  had  driven  a  coach,  as  he  told 
us,  for  more  than  twenty-five  years. 

To  my  mind,  it  was  a  beautiful  arrangement,  and 
my  father,  I  saw  plainly,  was  soon  of  the  same 
opinion,  There  was  room  to  point  his  cane  in  all 


206  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

directions,  and  entire  comfort  as  to  cushions  and 
back.     A  charming  arrangement ! 

In  this  satisfactory  manner,  we  slowly  bowled 
through  the  streets,  my  father  marking  for  me,  as 
we  passed,  all  the  places  of  note,  and  here  and  there 
questioning  the  driver,  who  sat  high  up  in  the  air, 
as  to  occasional  novelties,  which  were  of  late  date, 
and  consequently  of  small  significance.  "  All 
changed — all  changed,"  said  my  father,  after  touch 
ing  up  the  driver  with  his  cane,  as  to  some  new 
structure,  which  was  built  perhaps  six  months  be 
fore.  "Here, "he  continued,  turning  to  me,  uon 
this  corner  was  the  old  church,  where  we  came  to 
meeting.  I  see  nothing  of  it  now,"  said  he,  look 
ing  very  hard  at  a  plain  house  which  stood  there, 
as  if  he  thought  something  might  be  left,  "  I  see 
nothing  of  it, — but  here,  sir,  we  came  and  heard  the 
great  Dr.  Edwards  more  than  sixty,  yes,  seventy 
years  ago.  And  here,"  he  continued,  as  we  rolled 
out  into  the  country  and  passed  the  creek,  "  here  is 
the  ground  where  my  father  planted  his  cannon 
and  drove  back  the  British.  I  was  on  the  hill  with 
my  mother,  where  we  had  retired  in  the  night. 
We  staid  in  a  barn  up  there,  till  the  troubles  were 
over, — all  the  women  and  children  gathered  together 
there,  for  days  and  nights,  living  as  we  could  on 
what  we  had  caught  up  in  haste,  as  we  left  our 
homes.  There  your  aunt  was  born,  shook  into  the 
world  by  the  roar  of  cannon  x>n  the  plains.  It  was 
a  hard  time,  sir,  a  hard  time." 


A  FATHER'S   RECOLLECTIONS.  207 

"  Up  this  road,"  lie  continued,  "  a  mile  or  more, 
lived  a  man  whom  I  remember  as  Uncle  Joe  Ball, 
who  came  down  -to  the  old  house  twice  a  week, 
always,  to  shave  my  father.  The  Tories  in  the 
neighborhood  threatened  Uncle  Joe  severely,  .to 
which  he  replied  that  as  long  as  Captain  M.  needed 
a  barber  he  (Uncle  Joe)  should  attend  to  him,  and 
if  they,  the  rascally  Tories,  would  give  him  half  as 
good  a  breakfast  as  he  always  got  at  the  old  Cap 
tain's,  he  would  shave  them,  too." 

We  made  no  stop,  this  time,  at  the  homestead. 
Perhaps  we  had  frightened  them  too  much,  years 
ago.  On  that  occasion,  I  being  an  invalid  and  lag 
ging  behind,  my  father  walked  swiftly  in  at  the 
front  door,  and  by  a  side- door  passed  on  through  a 
sitting-room,  startling  several  women  who  were 
there,  and  still  moved  on  without  let  or  pause,  to  a 
back  kitchen,  where  he  threw  his  cloak  on  the  floor, 
and  exclaimed  to  all  who  might  be  concerned  in 
the  declaration,  "  The  very  spot  where  I  was  born !" 
This  was  his  first  and  last  remark.  Looking  for  a 
moment  at  the  frightened  people  with  exceeding 
severity,  as  though  they  had  scarcely  a  right  to 
appear  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  with  his  great 
cloak,  which  I  replaced  on  his  shoulders,  swinging 
in  the  wind,  my  father  immediately  marched  out 
again,  by  a  rear  door,  and  has  never  entered  the 
house  since.  I  returned  a  moment  to  apologize,  and 
learned  that  they  bear  our  name,  but  knew  nothing 
about  us.  The  event  of  that  morning  they  doubt 


208  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

less  remember,  as  we  do  hurricanes,  as  something 
fearful,  but  (providentially)  rare. 

At  this  time,  as  I  said,  we  made  no  halt,  save  for 
a  look,  but  a  mile  or  thereabouts  further  south,  my 
father  stopped  the  carriage,  and  directed  my  atten 
tion  to  a  small  two-story  building,  probably  now 
used  as  a  corn-house.  "  I  remember  it  well,"  said 
he,  "  for  there  was  where  we  first  came  to  school. 
I  was  a  mere  child,  for  it  is  at  least  seventy  years 
ago,  but  I  remember  it  well,  because  the  house  was 
once  struck  by  lightning,  and  none  of  us  hurt,  not 
one.  But  I  remember  it  better  from  another  cir 
cumstance.  It  was  kept  by  a  school-mistress.  I 
shall  never  forget  that  place,  or  that  school-mis 
tress,"  said  my  father,  looking  at  me  with  a  smile, 
"for  every  morning  and  evening  she  prayed  for  us, 
closing,  always,  with  this  petition, — that  we  might 
all  meet  again  in  the  bright  morning  of  the  Resurrec 
tion." 

As  we  drove  on  into  the  city,  my  father  leaned 
back,  for  the  first  time,  in  the  carriage,  and  ex 
claimed,  (quoting  from  one  of  his  own  poems — the 
originality  of  which  we  afterwards  discussed,) 

"Loud  strikes  the  clock  of  Time!  This,  sir,  is 
probably  the  last  drive  that  we  shall  ever  have 
together  to  the  old  homestead." 

I  hope,  Mr.  Editor,  that  I  have  not  wearied  you 
with  these  personal  matters.  It  is  that  petition  of 
the  school-mistress,  which  has  been  haunting  me 
to-day.  That  is  the  child's  face  which  has  been 


"INDEPENDENCE."  209 

before  me  all  the  morning.  It  was  said  seventy 
years  ago,  or  thereabouts,  and  doubtless  it  has  been 
said  many  thousands  of  years  ago,  but  it  is  good 
yet,  is  it  not  ?  It  will  never  become  old  or  tire 
some.  As  time  piles  up  the  years  and  hurries 
them  off  into  the  past,  this  old-fashioned  petition 
will  become  brighter  and  brighter  by  repetition, 
and  for  all  the  years  that  remain  to  this  rolling 
world.  And  long  after  we,  my  dear  Editor,  have 
stepped  aside  from  this  swift  procession — when  we 
have  written  our  last  Margins,  and  all  this  beauti 
ful  arrangement  for  sunrise  and  sunset  shall  have 
floated  away  from  us,  as  a  dream  and  a  mist,  there 
will  still  be  thousands,  and  thousands,  and  ten  times 
thousands,  evermore  looking  up,  and  uttering,  by 
day  and  by  night,  through  all  the  round  world; 
that  sweet  petition — that  we  may  all — all  meet  in  the 
bright  morning  of  the  Resurrection. 

Yours,         . 


"  THE  INTENSE  VITALITY  OF  THIS  JULY  DAY." 

Speaking  of  July,  reminds  one  of  "  Independ 
ence,"  and  that  again  of  celebrations,  of  the  boom 
ing  of  great  guns,  the  fizzing  of  fire-crackers,  of 
rockets  skiving  through  the  heavens  at  night,  and 
all  the  paraphernalia  belonging  to  the  commemora 
tion  of  the  birth-day  of  a  great  nation.  We  have 
done  one  thing  in  our  day  to  tell  of.  What  few 


210  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

living  Editors,  we  venture  to  say,  or  lawyers  either, 
for  that  matter  have  ever  done. ;*  We  once  delivered 
an  oration  in  a  state's  prison,  on  a  Fourth  of  July, 
and  our  audience  consisted  only  of  the  convicts 
and  their  keepers.  Most  people  in  this  State,  leg 
islators  and  tax-payers  especially,  have  heard  of 
the  Clinton  prison,  an  establishment  away  up  in 
Clinton  County,  right  in  the  woods,  literally  at  the 
end  of  the  road.  It  consists  of  a  great  pile  of  stone 
buildings  surrounded  by  palisades,  inclosing  some 
dozen  or  more  acres,  inside  of  which  is  a  bed  of 
iron  ore,  which  is  wrought  by  the  convicts.  This 
ore  is  raised  and  separated  at  an  expense  of  some 
five  dollars,  or  thereabouts,  per  ton,  and  sold  at 
something  like  four  dollars,  leaving  a  clear  profit 
of  about  one  dollar  to  the  State — out  of  pocket. 
However  this  may  be,  the  State  has  for  the  last  ten 
or  more  years  been  looking  for  the  "good  time 
coming,"  when  the  Clinton  prison  would  sustain 
itself  without  the  aid  of  taxation,  and  the  treasury, 
and  that  same  good  time  is  in  prospect  still. 

Four  years  ago  we  were  out  among  the  Chatau- 
gay  woods,  tramping  over  the  hills  and  along  the 
streams,  floating  over  the  lakes  and  climbing  the 
mountains,  and  playing  the  savage  among  the 
Adirondacks  for  a  fortnight.  We  had  a  nice  time 
among  the  game.  We  shot  all  the  deer  we  desired 
to,  and  caught  as  many  trout  as  we  pleased.  We 
killed  a  wild  cat  and  a  fisher,  and  squirrels  and 
rabbits  not  a  few.  We  floated  over  those  beautiful 


NORTHERN  LAKES.  211 

lakes  that  lay  there  all  alone  in  the  woods,  rowing 
around  their  rocky  shores,  talking  with  the  old 
forest  spirits  and  weird  things  that  had  not  yet  been 
frightened  away  by  the  tramp  and  the  roar  and  on 
ward  rush  of  civilization. 

Beautiful,  aye,  most  beautiful  are  those  northern 
lakes,  lying  among  the  mountains  and  surrounded 
by  the  ancient  forest,  just  as  they  were  placed  there 
by  the  command  of  God.  Especially  beautiful  are 
the  Saranacs,  and  Eound  Lake,  and  Tupper's  Lake? 
studded  with  picturesque  islands,  some  treeless  and 
shrubless,  mere  brown  moss-covered  rocks,  great 
boulders  rising  up  out  of  the  deep  water.  Others 
are  covered  with  solemn  old 'primeval  trees,  against 
which  the  woodman's  axe  has  never  been  swung. 
Eomantic  bays  steal  around  and  are  hidden  behind 
high  promontories.  Fragmentary  rocks  in  some 
places  are  piled  up  like  a  ruined  wall  along  the 
banks,  while  at  others  a  sandy  beach  stretches  back 
to  the  alders  and  scrubby  trees  that  line  the  shore. 
A  beautiful  river  is  the  Racquet,  coming  down  from 
among  the  mountains  with  a  deep  and  quiet  cur 
rent,  save  where  occasional  rapids  occur,  when  it 
dashes  madly  along,  foaming  and  eddying,  and 
whirling  round,  among,  and  over  the  rocks,  and 
roaring  onward  for  a  little  way,  and  then  settling 
down  agsfm  into  calmness  and  a  dignified  flow. 

We  returned,  or  as  our  guide  termed  it,  "came 
out,"  from  our  forest  wanderings  at  the  Clinton  pri 
son,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  third  of  July.  "We 


212  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

accepted  the  invitation  of  the  Agent  to  spend  a 
day  or  two  with  him.  In  the  evening  the  good 
old  chaplain  called  upon  us,  and  stated  that  the 
convicts  were  to  have  a  prison  holiday  and  an  ex 
tra  dinner  on  the  morrow,  and  requested  us  to  give 
them  an  oration.  We  prepared  one  during  the 
night,  and  delivered  it  on  the  Fourth,  in  the  presence 
of  some  three  hundred  or  more  convicts  and  their 
keepers,  in  the  chapel  of  the  prison.  It  was  a  new 
thing  to  talk  about  liberty,  and  progress,  and  social 
order,  the  glories  of  a  free  government  and  the 
advance  of  civilization  to  men  whose  view  was 
circumscribed  by  the  palisades  of  the  prison,  who 
were  slaves  to  the  State  in  the  hands  of  their  keep 
ers,  and  with  whom  freedom  of  word  or  action 
was  a  memory  only.  When  we  rose  from  the  chap 
lain's  desk  to  address  them  and  looked  upon  the 
faces  before  us,  every  one  of  which  wore  a  settled 
melancholy,  a  sorrowful,  almost  hopeless  express 
ion,  an  indescribable  feeling  of  sadness  overpow 
ered  us,  and  we  had  to  sit  down  to  wipe  away  the 
tears  that  obscured  the  pages  of  the  manuscript 
before  us.  We  had  addressed  a  good  many  audi 
ences  in  our  day,  but  never  one  like  that.  We 
saw,  before  we  had  spoken  a  word,  the  big  tears 
coursing  down  the  cheeks  of  those  with  whose 
hearts  memory  was  busy — memory  that  brought 
their  little  ones  around  them,  with  their  childish 
prattle  and  innocent  faces,  from  whom  their  crimes 
had  banished  them,  and  no  doubt  conscience  was 


THEY  ARE  GONE,  ALL  GONE.  213 

doing  its  work.  No  man  ever  had  an  audience 
that  listened  with  a  more  earnest  attention  to  his 
words,  than  did  those  three  hundred  convicts  to 
ours,  and  the  memory  of  that  Fourth  of  July  ora 
tion,  in  a  State's  prison,  will  remain  with  us  always. 

"  So  my  father  says.  There  is  scarcely  a  man  or  woman  in  all 
New  Haven  who  remembers  him."  "  All  gone,"  says  my  fa 
ther,  "  all  gone,  every  one  of  them  that  I  used  to  know." 

Herein  is  one  of  the  mysteries  of  being.  We 
see  those  who  started  with  us  in  life  dropping  away, 
falling  like  the  Autumn  leaves  around  us,  the  cir 
cle  growing  smaller  and  smaller,  the  weak  and  the 
strong  falling  alike,  and  if  we  are  spared  only  a 
few  years  longer,  we  too  can  say  of  the  companions 
of  our  youth,  "they  are  gone,  all  gone."  "We 
remember  a  Scotchman,  a  neighbor  of  our  father's, 
who  was  a  middle-aged  man,  when  we  were  a  boy. 
He  left  his  native  village  in  Scotland  before  attain 
ing  his  majority,  and  came  to  this  country  in  pur 
suit  of  fortune.  His  industry  and  frugality  secured 
that,  and  after  the  lapse  of  near  half  a  century,  he 
was  seized  with  a  longing  to  go  back  to  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood,  to  look  once  more  upon  the  things 
he  loved  so  well,  and  which  memory  had  treasured 
so  fondly  in  his  heart.  He  was  absent  some  three 
or  four  months,  and  we  met  him  here  in  the  city 
on  his  return.  He  was  an  old  man,  numbering 
nearly  or  quite  three-score  years  and  ten,  but  vigor 
ous  and  hearty  as  an  ordinary  one  of  fifty.  We 


214:  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

inquired  of  the  friends  he  expected  to  find,  and 
deep  sadness  gathered  on  his  features  as  he  an 
swered,  "  I  found  only  their  graves.  None  knew 
me.  I  was  a  stranger  alike  to  the  memory  and 
traditions  of  my  kindred." 

There  is  small  philosophy  in  pausing  to  inquire 
why  we  are  spared.  The  mystery  of  this  everlast 
ing  change,  this  dropping  into,  and  dropping  out  of 
life,  is  a  matter  upon  which  we  may  speculate,  but 
one  that  we  cannot  solve.  This  we  know,  that  busy 
and  successful  as  death  is,  and  has  always  been,  in 
recruiting  his  ranks,  the  great  army  of  the  living 
goes  on  increasing  always.  Being  born,  is  a  pre 
requisite  to  death,  and  although  it  be  a  fixed  fact 
that  it  is  appointed  unto  all  men  once  to  die,  yet  it 
is  an  equally  certain  thing,  that  more  men  have 
been  born  into  the  world  than  have  died.  When 
one,  or  a  hundred,  or  a  thousand,  disappear  from 
among  the  living,  one,  or  a  hundred,  or  a  thou 
sand,  together  with  a  few  extra  numbers,  step  into 
their  places,  and  it  is  doubtless  a  fact  that  there 
are  more  people  in  the  world  to-day  than  there 
were  yesterday,  or  at  any  previous  period,  and 
there  will  be  more  to-morrow  than  there  are  to 
day.  The  number  of  living  men  and  women  is 
increasing,  and  has  been,  we  have  no  doubt,  since 
the  ark  rested  on  Ararat,  and  that  number  will  go 

on  increasing  until when?     The  world  is  not 

full  of  people  yet,  by  a  long  shot. 


DRAGON   OYSTERS.  215 

"  We  have  usually  the  front  first  floor  rooms,  and  if  in  season, 
the  landlord  always  remembers  my  father's  partiality  for  the 
Dragon  oysters,  and  supplies  us  three  times  a  day." 

Do  you  think,  our  friend  MARGINS,  that  the 
Landlord  of  the  "  Park  House  by  the  College 
Green,"  could  be  induced  to  extend  his  civilities 
in  this  respect  to  a  new  customer  ?  "Would  the  edi 
tor  of  the  Register  be  likely  to  be  treated  to  those 
same  Dragon  oysters  ?  If  so,  we  shall  be  likely  to 
patronize  the  "  Park  House  by  the  College  Green," 
for  we  confess  that  of  all  the  delicate  morsels  a 
fresh  Dragon  oyster  right  from  his  oozy  bed,  is  our 
weakness;  we  hold  him  to  be  the  prince  of  the 
bivalves ;  not  the  largest,  certainly,  nor  the  fattest, 
but  he  is  the  sweetest,  the  one  that  is  just  right  to 
a  dot.  We  have  small  respect  for  the  college  or 
institutions  of  learning  of  New  Haven — not  that  we 
would  speak  in  dispraise  of  them.  They  may  all 
be,  and  doubtless  are,  well  enough  in  their  way. 
They  have  doubtless  sent  out  many  men  who  have 
made  a  noise  in  the  world,  and  there  may  be  many 
more  like  them  to  follow ;  but  there  are  a  hundred 
other  places  where  great  men  are  manufactured, 
where  colleges  and  institutions  of  learning  abound ; 
but  New  Haven  alone  can  boast  of  the  genuine, 
unadulterated  Dragon  oyster,  and  this  great  fact  is 
its  crowning  glory.  It  is  the  Dragon  oyster  that 
links  New  Haven  to  history,  and  makes  it  immor 
tal.  Ask  of  a  Yirginian  where  New  Haven  is,  and 
he  will  tell  you  it  is  where  they  have  the  Dragon 


216  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

oyster  fresh  every  day — ask  him  its  principal  attrac 
tion,  and  he  '11  answer  the  Dragon  oyster — ask  him 
its  principal  production,  its  chief  article  of  manufac 
ture,  he'll  tell  you  the  Dragon  oyster;  and  his 
mouth  will  moisten,  and  his  eyes  dilate  while  he 
sums  up  his  geographical  knowledge  of  the  locality 
in  the  great  fact,  THE  DRAGON  OYSTER. 


XVI. 

THE    DINNER,    AND    OOOD-BYE- 
DECEMBER. 

Now  that  we  have  dined,  Mr.  Editor,  let  us 
shake  hands,  and  part. 

Some  years  ago  on  the  Kaatskills,  I  wrote  a  little 
poem  about  the  country  near  Stratford-on-Avon. 
In  that,  I  discoursed,  very  much  to  my  satisfac 
tion,  of 

"  The  journeying  hills  that  wind  away 

Slowly,  as  to  a  passing-bell ; 
Like  friends  who  say  good-bye,  yet  stay, 
And  still  repeat — good-bye — Farewell. 

That  was  very  proper  for  Ould  England,  but 
don't  let  us,  Mr.  Editor,  copy  after  such  nonsense. 
For  it  is  time,  sir,  to  have  done  with  Margins. 
Unless  we  stop  soon,  your  readers  will  think  that 
we  have  set  up  for  an  institution,  "  most  tolerable, 
and  not  to  be  endured."  The  year,  too,  draws  to  a 
close,  and  it's  hardly  worth  while  to  carry  over  the 
old  year's  talk  into  the  new.  I  am,  as  you  know, 
a  little  slow,  at  best,  although  you  have  waked  me 
some,  (I  rise,  now,  perhaps  an  hour  earlier,  than 


218  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

when  we  began  our  discussions:)  But  I  need  all 
the  helps  of  appositeness  and  picked  time  of  entree. 
Now  that  we  are  to  part,  it  will  not  be  taken  in  any 
begging  sense,  if  I  confess  myself  behind  the  times, — 
not  up  with  the  rising  generation.  Not  that  I  care  ex 
ceedingly  about  this.  Probably  not.  If  there  is  any 
one  body  in  the  round  world,  or  say  any  two  or  three, 
(counting  in  my  wife  and  Nelly,)  who  carry  their 
days  along  with  more  high  content  than  do  we  in 
this  quiet  up-country,  I  should  like  to  make  their 
acquaintance.  So  that  it  is  not,  you  perceive,  that  we 
care  as  to  being  not  quite  so  enterprising  as  the  world 
that  dashes  by  us, — but  that  others  do.  Mrs.  Dash, 
I  suspect,  has  a  feeling  in  this  matter — so  have 
other  neighbors,  and  so,  perhaps,  have  you  and 
your  readers.  People  well  out  at  sea,  and  under 
full  sail,  don't  care  to  be  straining  their  hearing,  to 
please  some  idler  on  the  shore,  who  is  shouting  to 
them  through  a  trumpet. 

And  now,  sir,  if  only  that  dinner  deals  kindly 
with  you,  I  shall  be  more  than  content.  It  was  the 
dinner  to  which  you  were  invited,  six  months  ago, 
and  now  that  it  is  accomplished,  I  see  no  occasion 
for  further  talk.  Six  months  ago,  we  were  to  dine. 
The  six  months  have  gone,  and  we  have  dined. 
That  is  to  say,  Quod  erat  demonstrandum,  et  demon- 
stratus  est.  What's  the  use  of  margins,  when  we 
have  found  the  text,  the  very  heart  of  the  matter  ? 

The  talk,  then,  was  of  peas,  young  onions,  and 
spring  chickens ;  but  we  can't  bring  June  up  into 


How   DID   THE   EDITOE   BEST?  219 

mid- winter.  You  must  be  content,  sir.  with  having 
had  a  Christmas  dinner.  I  flatter  myself,  however, 
that  we  did  a  fair  thing  in  the  way  of  onions, — 
the  boiled  and  the  pickled ; — and  the  chickens  had 
been  spring  chickens,  which,  I  take  it,  satisfies  the 
conscience,  the  moral  sense,  as  to  that  matter.  If  a 
chicken  has  been  young  in  its  day,  what  more  can 
you  expect  ?  Oh,  my  Editor,  in  this  age  of  progress, 
when  there's  a  chance  of  attaining  to  the  full  cackle, 
the  perfected  crow,  it 's  quite  ridiculous  to  expect 
that  spring  chickens  are  always  to  continue  and 
remain  spring  chickens ! 

How  did  you  rest,  Hammond?  Did  you  go 
through  without  landing  ?  Did  Roaring  River  trouble 
you?  "All  in  the  solemn  midnight,"  (riot  cen 
turies  ago — but  this  same  last  night,  Dec.  27th-28th, 
now  gone  past,  and  at  this  moment  hanging  some 
where,  all  cold- and  dark  and  starry,  on  its  way 
over  the  lakes  and  the  prairies,)  did  there  come  up 
any  ghosts  of  dinner — nice  things  that  ought  to  be 
quiet, — tit-bits,  that  wouldn't  be  kind  to  you  ? 

One  thing  is  certain — the  fire-water  we  did  not 
have,  nor  the  Claret,  nor  the  Sauterne,  nor  the  Old 
Port,  nor  the  Heisdick.  We  did  not  find  the  key  to 
the  hall-closet. 

Of  course,  sir,  it  would  be  highly  improper  for 
me  to  speak  of  the  pre-arrangements  for  this  din 
ner.  It  would  scarcely  be  fair  to  Mrs.  Margin. 
For  instance,  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  say,  that 
the  last  six  weeks,  more  or  less,  have  been  and 


220  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

gone  chiefly  as  antecedents  to  this  event — that  we 
began  to  smell  onions  and  scolloped  oysters  (I  think) 
in  November — that  the  draft  in  the  parlor  chimney 
though  powerful,  was  the  wrong  way — that  I  placed 
there  an  old-fashioned  Franklin  grate,  which  from 
its  look  of  high  satisfaction  I  was  anxious  should 
have  a  good  time,  and  which  itself  evidently  had  its 
whole  heart  in  the  matter,  burning  and  smoking  in 
the  most  generous  manner,  straight  into  the  room — 
that  I  talked  with  it,  and  argued,  and  theorized, 
and  threatened,  for  days  and  nights — fired  it  up  this 
way,  and  that  way,  tried  it  with  the  north  wind, 
with  the  south  wind,  with  a  powerful  west  wind, 
and  found  all  winds  alike  to  it,  the  honest  old 
Franklin  taking  all,  and  giving  nothing  back  to  the 
chimney — that  finding,  at  last,  a  combination  of 
flues,  such  as  no  decent  stove  could  submit  to,  and 
after  working  hard  all  day,  carefully  noting  the 
smallest  hints,  the  slightest  coquetry  of  agreement, 
filling  and  opening,  and  again  filling  and  opening 
certain  dark  and  sooty  chambers,  that  same  old 
stove  suddenly  put  on  a  bright  and  complaisant 
face,  smiled  through  all  its  brass  headings,  and 
drew  to  a  charm  ! 

This,  sir,  would  never  do  to  mention  out  of  the 
family.  I  will  only  remark,  therefore,  that  having 
established  that  chimney  communication,  we  held 
it  with  a  firm  hand,  so  that  a  perpetual  flame  went 
up  those  ancient  flues,  to  the  hour  of  your  arrival. 

So,  also,  as  to  apparel,  especially  boots,  of  which 


A  STRUGGLE  WITH  BOOTS.     221 

I  found  an  elegant  pair,  which,  have  been  on  my 
feet  three  times,  I  believe,  in  the  last  five  years. 
Some  weeks  ago  (to  be  forehanded),  I  pulled  my 
astonished  feet  into  those  boots,  and  perhaps  the 
happiest  moment  of  my  life,  was  when  I  pulled 
them  out  again.  However,  I  keep  them  safe.  I 
lay  them  up  choice.  They  will  be  good  for  exer 
cise  in  stormy  days,  when  we  can't  get  out  doors. 
I  have  made  a  calculation,  that  if  I  begin  to  pull 
them  on  right  away  after  breakfast,  I  shall  just  be 
able  to  get  dinner,  when  it  will  be  time  to  begin 
immediately  at  getting  them  off  again.  This  will 
fill  up  the  whole  day  with  vigorous  exercise,  and 
be  excellent  for  the  arms  and  chest.  Any  tendency 
of  blood  to  the  head,  can  be  kept  down  by  cold  ap 
plications. 

They  were  put  aside,  therefore,  as  useful  in  that 
view,  but  not  for  a  holiday.  For  the  struggle  with 
those  boots,  sir,  opened  my  eyes,  as  to  the  folly  of 
all  such  vain  and  windy  endeavor ;  and  when  the 
fitness,  the  simplicity  of  shoes  presented  itself,  I  was 
at  once  a  better  and  a  stronger  man.  Having  con 
quered  the  glistening  temptation  of  boots,  other 
troubles  were  light  as  air ;  so  that  since  that  day, 
and  the  establishment  of  the  upward  current  in  the 
parlor  chimney,  the  whole  house  has  been  a-blaze 
with  the  liveliest  satisfaction,  up  to  the  breezy  mo 
ment  when  you  and  yours  stepped  in  at  our  front 
door. 

But,  oh  my  dear  Editor,  my  commentator,  and 


222  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

alter  ego  of  the  Margins,  you  perceive  that  all  this 
is  entirely  a  private  matter.  Exclusively,  sir,  ex 
clusively.  It  is  due  to  myself — it  is  "due  to  my 
wife — and  I  think,  too,  that  even  Nelly  might  have 
a  feeling  in  this  matter — a  nice  and  delicate  sense 
of  the  proper,  that  you  should  not  so  much  as  dream 
that  anything  of  the  kind  has  taken  place.  I  say, 
therefore,  nothing  about  it. 

Good-bye,  Hammond  —  good-bye,  and  addio. 
Now  that  we  have  dined,  and  supped,  and  slept, 
and  breakfasted,  while  the  wheels  are  still  rolling 
that  carry  you  home,  and  the  white  breath  of  that 
fire-horse  goes  up  into  the  gold  of  sunrise,  we  send 
after  you  this  last  greeting  and  farewell. 

With  the  day,  especially  the  early  morning,  are 
light,  and  strength,  and  hope.  With  the  night, 
are  darkness  and  dreams,  prophecies  and  mysteries. 
I  like,  always,  to  shake  parting  hands  in  the  morn 
ing. 

Addio,  sir,  and  take  our  best  up-country  regards 
to  all  your  household.  Especially  my  wife's  and 
Nelly's,  I  trust  you  will  keep  in  your  choicest 
remembrance.  And  as  you  travel  down  to  that 
last  hour  to  which  we  all  journey  on  together,  may 
you  and  yours  prosper  continually ;  may  you  greet 
many  another  Christmas ;  and  with  the  same  firm 
step  with  which  you  just  now  crossed  the  high 
bridge  over  Roaring  River,  may  you  walk  on  into 
the  mornings  of  many,  and  happy,  New  Years  to 
come. 

1  Yours,         . 


SHAKE   HANDS   AND  PART.       223 

"  Now  that  we  have  dined,  Mr.  Editor,  let  us  shake  hands 
and  part." 

Don't  say  that,  friend  MARGINS,  don't  say  it.  Part 
ing  is  a  hard  word,  indeed  it  is.  Have  you  so  many 
friends,  that  you  can  throw  off  even  one  without 
a  feeling  of  loneliness  about  the  heart  ?  We  know 
that  modern  friendships,  those  formed  when  white 
hairs  are  gathering  on  the  head,  are  not  like  those 
of  our  early  years — at  all  events,  they  are  less  easily 
formed,  and  herein  is  a  curious  matter  pertaining 
to  human  character.  It  is  more  difficult  to  form 
friendships  as  we  grow  old.  We  become  cautious ; 
we  weigh  character  caref ally ;  we  start  at  any  in 
consistency,  any  weakness,  that  we  entirely  overlook 
in  an  old  friend,  and  close  up  our  hearts  against 
that  confidence  which  in  our  youth  we  so  freely 
entertained.  No  matter  how  many  of  our  old  com 
panions  may  fall  from  around  us,  no  matter  how 
we  may  see  ourselves,  year  by  year,  isolated,  con 
tact  with  the  world,  a  practical  knowledge  of  its 
insincerity,  its  hollowness,  and  its  vanities  too, 
make  us  shrink  from  filling  the  void  which  death 
has  created,  by  new  intimacies.  Besides,  we  become 
cold  and  frigid  in  our  natures.  Icicles  form  around 
our  heart,  and  the  hot  tears,  over  the  graves  of  our 
early  friends,  will  not  melt  them  away.  We  should 
cherish  the  friendships  of  our  youth  the  more,  be 
cause  it  is  so  difficult  to  form  new  ones,  and  we 
should  prize  a  new  one,  formed  at  our  years;  as  a 


224:  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

diamond  set  around  with  rubies ;  as  gold  that  had 
passed  the  refiner's  ordeal. 

Say  that  we  shall  cease  our  discussions,  if  you 
please ;  that  this  is  the  last  of  the  MARGINS.  Retire 
to  enjoy  the  otium  cum  dignitaie  of  your  literary  la 
bors,  but  don't  say,  "let  us  shake  hands  and  part," 
don't  say  it. 

*  *  *  "And  the  chickens  had  been  spring  chickens, 
which,  I  take  it,  satisfies  the  conscience,  the  moral  sense,  as  to 
that  matter.  If  a  chicken  has  been  young  in  its  day,  what 
more  can  you  expect  ?  Oh !  my  Editor,  in  this  age  of  progress, 
when  there  is  a  chance  of  attaining  the  full  cackle,  the  perfected 
crow, — it 's  quite  ridiculous  to  expect  that  spring  chickens  are 
always  to  continue  and  remain  spring  chickens." 

Precisely  so — the  theory  looks  plausible,  and  so 
far  as  the  argument  goes;  we  cannot  gainsay  it. 
But  it  won't  stand  the  test  of  fact:  and  how  many 
of  the  ten  thousand  theories  originated  by  human 
wisdom  will  stand  that  test  ?  The  world  once  be 
lieved  that  this  little  earth  was  the  great  centre  of 
created  things.  That  it  was  a  vast  plain  stretching 
out  every  way,  consisting  of  oceans  and  dry  land, 
lakes,  mountains  and  seas,  rivers  and  islands.  That 
when  a  man  started  to  go  west,  west  he  might  go 
forever,  until  he  came  to  the  outer  edge,  the  jump 
ing  off  place,  if  any  edge  there  was.  That  the  sun 
travelled  round  the  earth  by  day,  and  the  moon  by 
night,  and  that  all  the  stars  were  only  shining  things 
set  up  in  the  sky  for  ornament.  This  theory  was 


TEST   OF   SPRING   CHICKENS.    225 

a  great  thing  for  human  pride,  and  the  men  of  those 
times  had  a  great  opinion  of  themselves  and  their 
mighty  world.  No  wonder  that  "  there  were  giants 
in  those  days."  But  the  demonstrations  of  science 
knocked  this  proud  theory  into  fragments.  Great 
ships  swung  out  upon  the  ocean,  and  sailed  away 
westward,  and  sailed  on,  traversing  unknown  seas. 
Onward  they  went,  westward  and  westward  still, 
until  one  day  they  made  their  appearance  in  the  East, 
returning  to  the  harbor  they  had  left.  People  still 
insisted  that  the  earth  was  flat ;  but  there  stood  the 
fact,  of  a  voyage  always  in  one  direction,  straight 
forward,  that  terminated  where  it  began.  Here 
was  a  practical  demonstration,  a  solitary  fact  that 
scattered  the  logic  and  the  learning  of  ages,  and  a 
great  theory  that  had  stood  as  truth  for  centuries, 
to  the  winds.  It  proved  that  this  earth  was  not 
flat,  but  round.  Science  again  applied  its  cold  de 
monstrations  of  fact  to  our  planetary  system,  and 
proved  that  this  mighty  earth  was  a  wonderfully 
small  matter  in  the  great  visible  universe  of  Grod, 
that  it  travelled  round  the  sun  as  a  sort  of  tender 
only,  and  that  the  little  stars  that  twinkled  away 
up  in  the  sky,  were  glorious  worlds,  to  whose  vast 
magnitude  this  earth  is  in  comparison  as  a  grass 
hopper  to  the  mastodon. 

And  now,  friend  MARGINS,  let  us  test  your  the 
ory  in  regard  to  spring  chickens — and  remember 
we  are  discussing  a  theory,  not  a  dinner,  and  espe 
cially  not  the  "  Christmas  dinner,"  for  that  was  all 
10 


226  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

that  an  epicure  could  ask,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
generous  hospitality,  the  pleasant  conversation  with 
which  it  was  seasoned.  Ask  a  "  diner  out"  who 
has  a  taste  for  that  choicest  of  delicacies,  the  spring 
chicken,  if  he  is  contented  with  the  argument  that 
he  should  feed  upon  an  antiquated  rooster,  because 
it  had  at  some  remote  period  been  a  spring  chick 
en  ?  Every  tooth  in  his  head  would  cry  out  against 
such  a  forced  conclusion.  Keason  with  him  as  you 
might — pile  Pelion  upon  Ossa  and  Ossa  upon  Olym 
pus,  in  the  way  of  theoretical  demonstration,  still 
his  aching  jaws,  that  had  in  vain  essayed  to  masti 
cate  the  muscles  and  ligaments  of  the  venerable 
game-cock,  and  his  sense  of  taste  that  had  detected 
no  delicacy  of  flavor,  would,  by  the  simple  applica 
tion  of  palpable  facts,  demolish  your  learning  and 
your  logic.  No,  sir,  a  spring  chicken  is  sui generis. 
It  never  exceeds  a  partridge  in  size.  When  it  "  at 
tains  the  full  cackle,  the  perfected  crow,"  as  a 
spring  chicken  it  ceases  to  have  an  existence ;  call 
it  a  fowl,  a  hen,  a  rooster,  anything  you  please,  but 
it  is  not  a  spring  chicken.  It  may  be,  and  I  affirm 
it  is,  a  good  and  edible  thing,  but  a  spring  chicken 
it  is  not.  It  has  not  the  delicate  flavor,  the  juicy 
tenderness — in  short,  the  perfection  of  all  that  is 
pleasant  to  the  palate,  that  belongs  to  the  spring 
chicken. 

"  One  thing  is  certain,  the  fire-water  we  did  not  have,  nor 
the  Claret,  nor  the  Sauterne,  nor  the  old  Port,  nor  the  Heid- 
sick  ;  we  did  not  find  the  key  to  the  hall-closet." 


NEVER   FLOORED   BUT   ONCE.    227 

And  therein  we  insist  upon  it  we  were  right. 
Will  you  tell  us,  friend  MARGINS,  why  it  is,  that 
rational  men,  who  can  reason  accurately  from  cause 
to  effect,  should  indulge  in  this  same  fire-water? 
Why  they  will  insist  that  they  cannot  be  jolly, 
without  invoking  to  their  aid  the  wine-God,  or  the 
still  more  dangerous  potentate,  King  Alcohol  ?  If 
you  will  look  over  our  pleasant  correspondence  you 
will  find,  somewhere  in  the  back  numbers,  this 
expression  in  regard  to  ourselves : 

"  Wine  floored  us  once,  and  only  once,  and  then  'twas  by 
treachery.  Under  the  influence  of  repentance  and  soda-water, 
we  cut  its  acquaintance  forever." 

We  have  smiled  over  the  memory  of  that  occa 
sion  more  than  once,  notwithstanding  certain 
twinges  of  conscience,  which  tempered  our  pro 
pensity  to  laughter,  for  be  it  known  to  you,  friend 
MARGINS,  that  there  is  "a  mirthful  sadness  as  well 
as  tears  of  joy." 

We  had  just  finished  our  term  of  study  required 
as  an  antecedent  to  being  admitted  to  practice  at 
the  bar  (we  mean,  of  course,  as  a  lawyer) ;  and  as 
the  court  was  in  session  in  New  York,  went  there 
for  the  purpose  of  passing  the  ordeal  of  an  exami 
nation  preparatory  to  obtaining  a  license  to  put 
"Attorney  at  Law"  at  the  end  of  our  name.  It 
was  of  a  January  day  when  we,  with  some  forty  or 
fifty  others,  were  examined,  and  cold  enough  to 
satisfy  the  conscience  of  a  Laplander.  Much  as  we 


228  COUNTRY  MARGINS. 

had  dreaded  the  examination,  and  diligently  as  we 
had  applied  ourself  to  be  prepared  for  it,  it  finally 
turned  out  to  be  a  very  commonplace  affair,  the 
principal  object  of  which  seemed  to  be,  to  occupy 
the  time  until  a  supper  to  the  examiners,  at  what 
in  those  days  was  a  celebrated  restaurant's  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  City  Hall,  could  be  prepared. 
When  that  event  was  announced  the  examination, 
of  course,  terminated,  and  we  were  all  pronounced 
uncommonly  learned  young  men,  in  every  branch 
of  legal  science ;  and  as  the  supper  was  excellent, 
we  may  be  said  to  have  graduated  with  great  honor. 
We  are  green  enough,  mercy  knows,  now,  but  were 
much  more  verdant  then.  The  greater  part  of  our 
long  clerkship  of  seven  years  had  been  spent  in  the 
rural  districts  where  Champagne  was  a  mere  rumor, 
an  ideality,  a  thing  to  hear  spoken  of  by  travelled 
gentlemen ;  besides,  our  finances,  if  such  cheer  had 
been  plenty,  would  have  been  a  barrier  between  us 
and  indulgence. 

Beside  us  at  the  table  sat  one  that  might  have 
been  called,  in  modern  parlance,  a  fast  young  man ; 
so  fast,  indeed,  that  he  ran  himself  out  of  constitu 
tion,  out  of  health,  and  into  the  grave  at  last,  before 
he  was  thirty  years  of  age.  He  was  the  son  of 
wealthy  parents,  highly  educated,  and  of  brilliant 
mind.  But  a  career  of  dissipation  squandered  one 
of  the  noblest  intellects  that  God  ever  gave  to  his 
creatures,  and  made  his  mother's  head  white,  and 
her  brow  wrinkled  long  before  their  time,  and  the 


A   BRICK   IN   THE   HAT.          229 

memory  of  his  last  hours,  when  the  drunkard's 
delirium  was  upon  him,  broke  her  heart,  and  she 
sank  childless  into  the  grave.  He  sat  beside  us  at 
the  supper-table.  Upon  him  wine  had  small  effect. 
Inured  to  its  use,  his  brain  seemed  almost  proof 
against  indulgence,  however  copious  his  libations. 
The  Champagne  was  choice,  and  we  remember  well 
that  it  was  pleasant  to  the  taste.  Our  neighbor 
drank  and  urged  us  to  drink,  descanting  all  the 
time  upon  its  harmless  nature,  and  we  were  foolish 
enough  to  drink  one  glass  to  his  two,  during  the 
sitting!  "We  had  a  jolly  time  of  it;  just  such  a 
time  as  lays  up  repentance  and  humiliation,  and 
self-abasement,  when  the  sober  second  thought  calls 
up  the  follies  of  the  past.  "We  were  entirely  regular, 
so  long  as  we  remained  at  table,  and  in  the  equable 
atmosphere  of  the  room,  but  when  we  got  out  into 
the  piercing  cold  outside,  all  at  once  the  lights 
seemed  to  be  dancing  a  quadrille  with  the  houses, 
and  the  streets  with  their  lamps  seemed  to  go  up  in 
a  long  vista  towards  the  sky.  Everything  seemed 
in  motion.  The  buildings  got  out  into  the  middle 
of  the  streets.  The  Old  City  Hall  was  turning  a 
somersault,  and  the  horses  and  carts,  and  car 
riages  seemed  to  be  all  standing  straight  up  on  end, 
or  going  perpendicularly  up  towards  the  stars,  that 
were  dodging  about  in  a  manner  that  was  a  sight 
to  behold.  The  side-walks  were  steep,  very  steep, 
and  it  was  an  up-hill  business  to  travel  upon  them. 
We  remember  catching  around  a  lamp-post  that 


230  COUNTRY   MARGINS. 

was  hurrying  up  Broadway,  on  a  two-forty  gait, 
just  as  the  glass  came  down  in  a  crash  around  us, 
a  friend  of  ours  having  thrown  his  hickory  cane  at 
it  to  stop  the  runaway.  At  that  instant,  a  kind 
gentleman,  who  belonged  to  the  night  watch,  intro 
duced  himself  to  our  acquaintance.  What  the 
subject  of  his  remarks  was  we  do  not  remember, 
but  when  he  said  watch-house,  we  said  "  a  carriage, 
"Western  Hotel,  call  in  the  morning,  all  right,  go 
ahead."  The  rest  is  a  blank.  We  awoke  in  the 
morning  about  ten  o'clock,  in  our  own  room  at  our 
hotel,  with  ten  thousand  bees  humming  and  smarm 
ing  in  our  head,  temples  throbbing  with  pain,  and 
a  deep  sense  of  shame  in  our  heart.  That  night's 
experience  satisfied  its.  If  we  cannot  be  jolly  with 
out  a  recourse  to  artificial  stimulants,  we  have  made 
up  our  mind  to  "go  mourning  all  our  days."  It  is 
a  bad  thing,  a  dangerous  thing,  to  trifle  with  this 
"fire- water."  Better  play  with  the  forked  light 
ning,  better  grapple  with  the  locomotive  when  he 
comes  crashing  and  thundering  along,  screaming 
and  roaring  with  the  voice  of  the  arch-fiend,  and 
hurling  forward  with  the  speed  of  the  wind,  his 
ponderous  train. 

"ADDIO." 

Well,  friend  Margins,  if  part  we  must,  so  be  it. 
To  us,  at  least,  our  season  of  communion,  brief 
though  it  be,  has  been  pleasant.  We  shall  look  back 
upon  it  as  one  of  the  green  spots  of  a  life  that  has 


FAEHWELL.  231 

been  to  some  extent  a  barren  one.  There  are  many 
desolate  places  along  which  its  course  has  been,  and 
few  flowers  have  bloomed  by  the  wayside.  But 
"addio"  be  it,  and  G-od  bless  you  and  all  those  that 
you  love.  May  health  and  strength  return  to  you, 
may  no  sorrow  cast  its  dark  shadow  around  you. 
May  your  life  be  a  long  and  a  happy  one,  and  may 
your  last  hour  be  the  happiest  of  all,  by  reason  of 
"  the  faith  that  leans  upon  God." 


COUNTRY    RAMBLES. 


COTJ:NTRY 


i. 


CANANDAIGUA — PENN    YAN  —  CKOOKED    LAKE — 
BATH — HORNELLSVILLE. 

I  AM  at  Canandaigua,  certainly  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  country  towns  in  the  State.  The  scenery 
about  it  is  not  grand  or  sublime ;  there  are  no  rug 
ged  mountains  rearing  their  tall  heads  to  the  clouds, 
frowning  in  eternal  barrenness  upon  majestic  rivers 
sweeping  around  their  base,  or  lakes  sleeping  in 
quiet  valleys  below  them ;  there  are  no  waterfalls 
rushing  down  from  the  hills  in  foaming  cascades,  or 
winding  in  deep  ravines  among  old  primeval  woods ; 
but  there  is  that  which  is  better.  There  are  rich 
farms  spread  out  all  around,  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  fields  of  grain  waving  in  the  summer  breeze, 
meadows  covered  with  rich  grass  ready  for  the 
mower,  and  pastures  in  which  flocks  and  herds  are 
feeding ;  fine  farm-houses  hid  away  among  the  tall 
trees  and  shrubbery,  and  barns  filled  with  the  pro 
ducts  of  agriculture,  are  in  view.  On  the  south  is 
a  beautiful  lake  winding  away  around  low  promon 
tories,  with  cultivated  fields  or  patches  of  green 


236  COUNTKY  KAMBLES. 

woods  stretching  away  from  the  beach.  Such  is 
the  scenery  around  Canandaigua.  There  are  pleas 
ant  drives  in  every  direction.  The  road  that  winds 
along  the  shore  of  the  lake  will  afford  a  delightful 
ride  of  a  summer  morning  or  evening,  and  the  other 
avenues  leading  away  into  the  country  are  scarcely 
less  pleasant.  Everywhere  are  the  evidences  of 
wealth,  of  progress,  and  of  civilization.  Fine  horses, 
fine  cattle  and  sheep,  and  rich  harvests,  are  con 
stantly  in  view.  These  things  are  around  Canan 
daigua,  outside  of  the  village,  within  range  of  a 
walk  or  a  drive.  But  the  village  itself  affords  a 
greater  display  of  quiet  beauty  and  taste  than  I 
have  seen  elsewhere.  The  houses  are  massive  and 
elegant,  surrounded  by  large  and  tastefully  laid  out 
grounds  and  gardens,  decorated  with  the  rarest 
flowers,  and  the  richest  shrubbery.  There  are 
"solid  men/'  as  Daniel  Webster  would  say,  in  Can 
andaigua — "solid"  in  intelligence  and  social  quali 
ties,  in  moral  and  political  influence,  and  solid  in 
dollars,  Men  who  live  for  something  beyond  the 
mere  accumulation  of  wealth ;  who  will  leave  be 
hind  them  a  monument  in  the  taste  with  which  they 
have  adorned  the  spots  they  occupy.  These  beau 
tiful  residences,  the  grounds  decorated  with  rare 
shrubbery,  and  abounding  in  the  richest  fruits ; 
these  gardens,  sending  abroad  upon  the  air  the 
fragrance  of  flowers  that  charm  the  vision  by  their 
beauty,  and  entrance  the  senses  by  their  sweetness, 
are  better  than  railroad  stocks  or  vast  investments 


A  BEAUTIFUL   LANDSCAPE.     237 

in  the  funds,  to  leave  as  a  monument  when  one 
dies.  The  tree  one  plants,  survives  him ;  the  grape' 
vine  remains  when  the  hand  that  plants  it  is  cold ; 
the  rose-bush  blossoms  when  he  who  placed  it  in  the 
garden  is  alone  in  the  quiet  house  of  death ;  and 
while  the  tree  bears  its  fruit,  the  grape-vine  its  rich 
clusters,  or  the  rose  its  sweet  blossoms,  his  name 
will  remain  connected  with  them,  as  if  chiselled  in 
marble.  I  remember  that  in  one  of  the  old  towns 
of  New  England,  I  was  conversing  with  a  lady  who 
is  not  unknown  to  fame,  when  she  pointed  to  some 
elms  that  stood  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  her  dwell 
ing,  and  said,  "these  trees  were  planted  by  my 
grandfather,"  and  then  pointing  to  some  venerable 
pear-trees  that  hung  with  then  unripe  fruit,  said, 
"those  were  planted  by  the  original  proprietor  of 
these  grounds,  of  whom  my  grandfather  purchased 
them."  The  name  she  gave  I  have  forgotten,  but 
it  was  associated  with  the  old  pear-trees,  and  had  been 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years.  And  so  it  will  be 
with  the  trees  and  shrubbery  of  these  beautiful 
grounds.  They  will  preserve  the  memory  of  those 
who  placed  them  where  they  stand,  and  for  genera 
tions  be  a  monument  to  their  virtues  and  their 
name. 

From  an  observatory  on  the  top  of  one  of  the 
most  splendid  dwellings  in  the  village,  I  had  a  view 
of  the  country  around.  The  glass  was  slightly 
stained,  of  the  windows  through  which  I  looked, 
and  it  gave  a  mellowness  to  the  picture  that  was 


238  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

exceedingly  beautiful.  I  have  never  been  in  Italy ; 
I  know  about  an  Italian  sunset  only  from  descrip 
tions  by  tourists  and  from  paintings  by  masters  of 
the  art,  but  if  an  Italian  sunset  exceeds  in  beauty 
the  prospect  that  was  before  me,  as  I  looked  from 
that  observatory,  it  is  then  beautiful  indeed.  The 
lake,  the  farms  and  avenues  lined  with  trees  in  the 
distance,  the  village  residences,  the  gardens  and 
grounds  near  by,  and  the  delightful  walks  and  trees, 
and  rich  fruits  and  flowers  immediately  beneath  and 
around  me,  formed  a  landscape  which,  seen  in  the 
mellow  light  afforded  by  the  stained  glass  of  the 
windows  through  which  I  looked,  no  painter  could 
transfer  to  canvas,  or  Italy  excel. 

I  dined  with  the  owner  of  this  residence  and  his 
excellent  lady,  in  the  true  style  of  Scotch  hospi 
tality.  They  were  among  the  pioneers  of  what 
years  ago  was  known  as  the  Genesee  Country. 
They  have  seen  the  ancient  forests  standing  on  the 
site  of  Canandaigua,  and  stretching  away  to  the 
great  lakes,  and  they  have  watched  the  progress  of 
that  war  which  civilization  makes  upon  the  old 
primeval  things,  sweeping  away  the  woods  and 
spreading  out  broad  farms,  planting  churches  and 
school-houses,  and  building  up  cities  and  towns. 
They  heard  the  first  blast  of  the  stage  coachman's 
horn,  on  the  great  stage  route  through  the  centre  of 
the  State,  and  they  heard  its  dying  echoes  as  it  was 
succeeded  by  the  scream  of  the  steam- whistle  and 
the  snort  of  the  iron  horse.  They  shared  the  trials 


DECLINING  YEARS  OF  LIFE.   239 

and  hardships  incident  to  the  settlement  of  a  new 
country,  and  in  their  declining  years  they  are 
reaping  a  rich  harvest,  as  the  reward  of  their  perse 
verance  and  energy.  May  they  be  long  spared  to 
enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  labors;  and  when  their 
appointed  time  shall  come,  may  they  pass  away 
quietly  and  calmly  as  the  last  lingering  stars  pass 
from  the  twilight  of  morning  into  the  brightness  of 
the  perfect  day. 

As  we  were  walking  in  the  garden  after  dinner, 
among  the  beautiful  and  rare  flowers  and  shrubbery, 
I  said  to  the  excellent  lady  of  the  mansion,  "It 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  blessed,  certainly  not 
beyond  your  deserts,  but  beyond  the  ordinary  lot 
of  the  people  of  this  world.  You  have  wealth,  and 
you  have  the  taste  to  use  and  enjoy  it.  You  have 
this  beautiful  mansion,  and  these  delightful  grounds, 
these  flowers,  these  fruit  and  shade  trees,  these 
pleasant  walks,  and  all  that  can  make  life  pleasant. 
You  have  health,  and  spirits  to  enjoy  it  all.  While 
I,  who  have  all  the  love  for  all  these  things,  have 
neither  house  nor  grounds,  can  cultivate  no  shrub 
bery  or  flowers.  My  life  is  a  long  struggle  for 
bread." 

"  My  friend,"  she  replied,  and  a  shade  of  sadness 
came  over  her  countenance  as  she  spoke,  "  we  do 
not  differ  so  much  from  you.  "We  have  no  children 
to  bestow  our  affections  upon.  You  have.  Would 
you  exchange  them  for  all  that  you  have  seen  here  ? 
They  are  your  garden." 


240  COUNTRY  EAMBLES. 

And  I  thought  of  the  cherished  flower  that  death 
had  so  recently  plucked  from  the  garden  of  my 
home,  and  how  I  missed  its  perfume,  and  that  I 
would  give  all  the  treasures  of  earth,  were  they 
mine,  to  look  upon  the  sweet  blossom  again. 

There  is,  at  Canandaigua,  one  of  the  finest  hotels 
in  the  country.  It  is  spacious  and  new.  The 
rooms  are  large  and  airy,  and  furnished  with  great 
taste  and  neatness.  In  no  hotel  have  I  found  more 
care  or  attention  paid  to  the  comfort  and  conve 
nience,  and  even  the  luxury  of  the  guests.  To 
those  who  love  quiet,  who  would  be  away  from  the 
bustle  and  noise  of  a  city,  who  have  no  taste  for  the 
excitement  of  the  watering-places  or  fashionable 
resorts,  Canandaigua  offers  peculiar  inducements  to 
tempt  a  stay.  The  hotel,  I  repeat,  is  among  the 
very  best  in  the  State.  The  country  around  is 
charming,  the  drives  delightful.  Everything  that 
can  add  to  the  luxury  of  quiet  and  repose  during 
the  heat  of  summer,  is  to  be  found  here. 


I  am  at  Penn  Yan,  the  county  seat  of  Yates 
County,  a  neat  and  prosperous  village  in  one  of  the 
smallest,  but  richest  counties  of  the  State.  The 
farms  around  it  are  productive,  admirably  managed, 
and  the  farmers  are  rich.  In  no  part  of  the  State 
has  there  been  a  more  rapid  progress  in  improve 
ment  and  wealth  made.  It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to 


PENN  YAN   THEN  AND   Now.    241 

see  the  great  fields  of  grain,  of  wheat  just  ready  for 
the  harvest,  of  barley  ripening  for  the  sickle,  of  oats 
y0t  in  their  coat  of  green,  and  corn  even  with  the 
fences,  just  in  the  gorgeous  livery  of  a  thrifty 
growth.  Time  was  when  Penn  Yan  by  no  means 
enjoyed  the  best  name  in  the  world  for  morals.  It 
was  once  emphatically  a  hard  place,  a  place  of  horse 
trading,  horse  racing,  card  playing,  of  drinking, 
and  the  other  proclivities  which  go  to  make  up  an 
evil  reputation.  But  all  these  things  belong  to  the 
past,  and  Penn  Yan  is  now  as  distinguished  for  its 
public  virtue,  its  high  tone  of  public  morals,  as  it 
was,  in  days  long  gone  by,  for  its  evil  practices. 
Churches  and  school-houses,  and  the  persevering 
effort  and  example  of  good  men,  have  wrought  an 
utter  revolution  in  its  moral  character.  Its  vices 
have  been  forsaken,  its  evil  practices  abandoned. 
The  bad  men  who  stained  its  reputation  with  their 
evil  courses,  have  passed  away,  or  forsaken  their 
bad  ways.  Penn  Yan  is  a  sober  village,  full  of 
enterprise,  energy  and  industry,  where  the  right 
tone  of  morals  prevails. 

In  sight  of  Penn  Yan  is  the  Crooked  Lake. 
This  beautiful  sheet  of  water  has,  to  me,  a  thousand 
charms,  and  as  I  look  upon  it  a  rush  of  pleasant 
memories  come  clustering  around  my  heart.  I  was 
reared  upon  its  banks ;  I  have  floated  a  thousand 
times  upon  its  surface,  and  bathed  and  fished  in  its 
waters ;  I  have  caught  hundreds  of  salmon  trout 
out  in  the  deep  water,  and  thousands  of  yellow 


242  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

perch  and  sunfish  along  the  shore,  or  on  the  points 
of  the  bars,  where  the  equatic  weeds  grow  thick 
and  luxuriant,  like  a  cane-brake  or  a  wild  meadtfw 
away  down  in  the  water.  I  remember  when  my 
father's  log  house  stood  at  the  head  of  the  lake, 
some  forty  rods  back  from  the  shore,  with  a  gentle 
slope  of  meadow  to  the  water's  edge.  Great  maples 
that  had  been  spared  when  the  old  forest  trees  were 
swept  away,  stood  a  few  rods  apart  in  that  meadow, 
spreading  abroad  their  leafy  arms,  and  rising  in  the 
summer  time  like  pyramids  of  green  towards  the 
sky.  Midway  from  the  door  to  the  lake  was  a 
cluster  of  some  half  dozen  of  these  beautiful  trees, 
from  among  the  roots  of  which  a  cold  pure  spring 
came  gushing  up,  and  ran  in  a  little  brooklet  over 
a  bed  of  pebbles  to  the  lake.  It  was  a  new  country 
then.  No  highway  or  road  extended  beyond  my 
father's  clearing.  He  lived  eight  miles  from  a  mill, 
and  the  same  distance  from  a  store  or  a  physician. 
But  all  this  is  changed  now.  Where  then  was  that 
meadow,  and  fields  full  of  stumps,  or  old  primeval 
woods,  is  now  a  thriving  village  of  some  fifteen 
hundred  busy  people.  All  the  ancient  landmarks 
have  been  removed.  Civilization,  in  its  onward 
progress,  has  swept  everything  that  then  was  to 
oblivion.  The  old  maples  are  gone,  the  clustering 
plum  trees,  the  tall  sycamores,  the  hickory,  the 
butternut  and  the  wild  cherry  trees  are  all  gone. 
That  beautiful  spring  is  in  the  cellar  of  a  village 
store.  The  house  that  "I  was  born  in"  is  gone, 


A  BEAUTIFUL  SHEET  OF  WATER.  243 

and  its  place  occupied  by  a  pleasant  village  resi 
dence. 

This  was  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water  long  years 
ago,  when  there  were  few  clearings  along  its  shores, 
and  it  is  a  beautiful  sheet  of  water  still.  The  forest 
that  grew  in  dense  luxuriance  to  the  water's  edge, 
by  its  gigantic  growth  indicated  the  strength  of  the 
soil.  Where  that  forest  stood,  are  now  rich  farms, 
giving  back  wealth  to  the  descendants  of  the  hardy 
pioneers  that  swept  it  away.  The  scenery  around 
this  lake  is  most  beautiful — not  like  that  of  Lake 
George,  where  rocks  and  mountains  are  piled  up  in 
stately  barrenness,  opposing  their  bald  heads  to  the 
storm,  or  hiding  their  summits  in  the  mists  of 
heaven.  The  scenery  of  Lake  Greorge  is  grand, 
sublime ;  but  is  the  grandeur  of  sterility,  the  sub 
limity  of  desolation.  Civilization  can  never  beau 
tify  or  adorn  its  rugged  acclivities ;  agriculture 
cannot  thrust  its  sickle  into  ripened  grain,  nor  the 
ploughshare  penetrate  the  granite  soil  that  surrounds 
it.  It  may  be  a  resort  for  the  traveller  in  the 
summer  months,  to  enjoy  the  freshness  of  the 
mountain  air,  and  the  coolness  of  the  mountain 
breeze,  but  civilization  cannot  winter  there. 

The  scenery  about  this  lake  is  of  a  different 
character.  It  speaks  of  wealth,  of  comfort,  of  intel 
ligence,  of  civilization  and  progress.  The  farms 
that  stretch  away  in  gentle  acclivity  from  the  shore 
are  rich  in  agricultural  products,  great  fields  of 
wheat,  just  passing  into  yellow  ripeness,  waving 


24-i  COUNTRY   EAMBLEB. 

like  an  ocean  in  a  gentle  breeze.  Meadows,  which 
are  now  being  shorn  by  the  mowers — acres  upon 
acres  of  oats  and  corn,  now  in  their  richest  robe  of 
luxurious  green — pastures  where  flocks  and  herds 
are  grazing.  Painted  houses  and  great  barns, 
patches  of  woodland  left  to  supply  fuel,  and  timber 
for  fences  and  building.  These  make  up  the  land 
scape  that  skirts  the  Crooked  Lake.  There  is  no 
lack  of  secluded  bays  or  shaded  nooks,  into  which 
the  little  row-boat  may  glide,  nor  rugged  promon 
tories  covered  with  stately  trees,  beneath  the  shadow 
of  which  one  may  luxuriate,  safe  from  the  noonday 
heat,  and  refreshed  by  the  cool  breeze  that  sweeps 
over  the  water.  Midway  between  Penn  Yan  and 
the  head  of  the  lake  is  Bluff  Point,  around  the  base 
of  which  the  lake  sweeps,  and  which  forms  a  penin 
sula,  separating  the  east  from  the  west  branch  of 
the  lake.  This  point,  as  it  is  called,  is  a  hill  of 
some  thousand  feet  in  height,  rising  with  a  steep 
acclivity,  but  cultivated  to  the  water's  edge.  On 
the  top  it  is  comparatively  level,  and  presenting  for 
some  eight  or  ten  miles  a  beautiful  farming  country. 
At  the  highest  elevation  stands  a  pleasant  farm 
house,  overlooking  the  lake  and  all  the  country 
round.  Seen  from  the  water,  it  stands  out  in  bold 
relief  against  the  sky,  like  some  ancient  castle  of 
the  barons  of  old.  From  Penn  Yan  to  this  dwell 
ing,  is  a  pleasant  ride  of  some  ten  or  twelve  miles 
over  a  plank  road  most  of  the  way.  When  there, 
the  traveller  will  have  a  view  worth  a  day's  ride  to 


A  BEAUTIFUL  VALLEY.         245 

look  upon.  He  will  be  far  above  the  surrounding 
country.  On  three  sides  of  him  will  be  the  lake 
with  the  beautiful  scenery  that  skirts  it.  To  the 
Bast  he  will  overlook  a  country  of  forest  and  farms 
for  miles  and  miles,  within  which  he  will  see  two  or 
three  smaller  lakes ;  to  the  north  he  will  see  Penn 
Yan,  and  the  rich  agricultural  district  that  surrounds 
it,  and  beyond,  the  Seneca' Lake.  Away  to  the  south 
he  will  be  charmed  by  the  beautiful  valley  that 
stretches  away  from  the  head  of  the  lake,  and  is 
lost  among  the  hills  that  hem  in  the  valley  of  the 
Conhocton ;  while  to  the  west  his  eye  will  wander 
over  a  country  more  wild  and  rugged,  but  still  rich 
and  beautiful.  No  traveller  should  leave  Penn  Yan 
without  visiting  Bluff  Point.  Nor  should  he  fail  to 
take  a  passage  over  the  lake  in  the  pleasant  little 
steamer  Steuben.  In  Captain  John  Greig  he  will 
find  an  intelligent  and  courteous  gentleman — one 
who  loves  his  boat  and  the  lake  he  navigates,  and 
the  country  and  the  people  round  it ;  who  loves  to 
point  out  the  beauties  of  the  scenery,  and  hear  the 
tourist  respond  to  his  own  enthusiasm.  He  is,  as  I 
said,  an  intelligent  man,  not  profoundly  educated  in 
scholastic  lore,  but  one  who  has  read  and  thought  a 
vast  deal.  Talk  about  the  birds,  and  you  will  find 
him  an  ornothologist.  He  will  show  you  his  collec 
tion  of  birds,  prepared  in  a  superior  manner  by 
himself.  Among  these  he  will  point  out  to  you  a 
loon  or  northern  diver,  taken  on  a  hook  upon  a 
night  line  in  more  than  a  hundred  feet  of  water. 


246  COUNTKY   KAMBLES. 

Talk  about  the  fishes,  and  you  will  find  him  deeply 
conversant  with  piscatory  lore.  Talk  of  the  animals 
that,  when  the  country  was  wild,  frequented  the 
forests  in  this  portion  of  the  country,  and  you  will 
find  him  at  home  on  the  subject.  In  whatever 
relates  to  nature,  and  the  living  things  of  nature,  he 
is  learned  as  careful  reading  and  study  can  make  a 
man  of  his  years. 

I  go  up  the  Lake  with  him  to-morrow,  and  shall 
write  you  again.  I  go  to  visit  the  old  scenes  of  my 
boyhood.  Though  everything  is  changed,  though 
the  old  land  marks  that  I  loved  are  all  gone,  yet  I 
love  to  linger  around  the  spot  where  my  early  youth 
was  spent,  and  call  up  visions  of  scenes  long,  long 
past.  I  love  to  call  back  the  brave  old  trees,  the 
fields,  the  fences,  the  stumps,  the  gushing  spring, 
and  brushing  away  the  houses  and  the  streets,  place 
them  as  they  stood  of  old.  I  love  to  call  up  the  old 
maples  that  stood  in  the  meadow  between  the  old 
log  house  and  the  lake,  in  all  their  ancient  verdure, 
and  talk  with  the  unseen  spirits  that  people  their 
green  foliage.  I  love  to  tear  away  the  store  houses, 
the  docks,  and  the  great  high  wall  that  usurp  the 
place  of  the  little  bay  at  the  northwest  corner  of  the 
lake,  that  shot  landward  beneath  the  spreading  arms 
of  the  ancient  elms  and  oaks,  up  whose  great  trunks 
the  wild  grape-vine  climbed,  and  creeping  out  along 
the  branches,  covered  them  with  its  tendrils  like  a 
net  work,  and  spread  out  its  broad  green  leaves  like 
a  thatched  roof,  shutting  out  the  light  of  the  sun. 


CKOOKED  LAKE  KEMINISCENCES.  217 

And  yet  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  visit  these  old  places  and 
see  the  mighty  change  that  has  come  over  them. 


I  am  on  the  Crooked  Lake,  a  passenger  in  the 
pleasant  little  steamer  Steuben,  under  the  command 
of  Captain  JOHN  GREIG,  of  whom  I  have  spoken 
before.  All  that  I  said  of  him  then  was  true,  all 
that  I  said  of  the  scenery  around  this  lake  is  true, 
unless  it  be  that  I  have  failed  to  do  it  justice.  I 
said  I  was  reared  upon  the  banks  of  this  lake,  and 
that  as  I  looked  upon  its  pure  clear  water,  and  upon 
the  hills,  the  gentle  slopes,  the  valleys  and  the 
streams  that  come  to  it  wandering  away  from  the 
country,  a  crowd  of  sad,  but  pleasant  memories 
come  clustering  around  my  heart.  It  is  not  now  as 
it  was  then.  Everything  is  changed.  The  old 
forests  are  gone,  the  tall  pines,  the  majestic  oaks, 
the  maples,  the  sycamores,  the  gigantic  elms,  the 
lofty  lindens,  the  wild  cherry  and  the  butternut 
trees,  old  primeval  things  all,  are  gone.  Let  me 
describe  it  to  you  as  my  memory  paints  it,  before 
civilization  had  robbed  it  of  its  ancient  beauty,  as  it 
lay  here  in  the  midst  of  the  wilderness,  sleeping 
alone.  Let  us  look  upon  it  as  it  was  years  and 
years  ago,  when  I  was  a  boy.  We  will  talk  with 
the  old  settlers,  the  pioneers  that  first  made  war 
upon  the  forests  that  stood  in  primitive  solitude 
about  it.  They  were  the  vanguard  of  civilization, 


248  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

and  changed  by  their  labor  that  great  wilderness 
into  fruitful  fields.  True,  they  have  all  passed 
away,  dropped  into  honored  graves,  but  we  will 
call  their  spirits  around  us,  and  they  will  tell  us  of 
the  times  of  old,  of  the  scenes  of  the  early  settle 
ments,  of  their  struggles  and  hardships.  They  can 
tell  us  many  a  story  connected  with  this  lake  that 
has  lain  here  so  long  unappreciated  and  unhonored. 
We  will  not  look  upon  the  beautiful  farms,  the  vil 
lages  that  now  are  found  upon  its  shores.  We  will 
people  the  fields  with  the  old  forest  trees,  and  brush 
away  the  houses  and  barns.  We  will  take  away 
the  fences,  and  remove  all  these  evidences  of  civili 
zation.  Where  the  flocks  and  herds  are  feeding  in 
rich  pastures,  we  will  replace  the  deer  and  bear, 
and  the  other  wild  animals  that  roamed  there  before 
the  woodman's  axe  frightened  them  away,  or  the 
hunter's  rifle  doomed  them  to  destruction.  We  will 
do  as  I  did  more  than  thirty  years  ago,  when  there 
were  but  few  clearings  along  the  shore,  go  a  voyage 
around  the  lake  in  a  canoe  made  from  the  trunk  of 
a  gigantic  pine.  I  earned  my  first  five  dollars  by 
that  voyage.  I  was  hired  by  two  English  gentle 
men  to  row  them  round  the  lake.  They  were  kind- 
hearted  men,  for  when  they  saw,  boy  that  I  was, 
that  I  was  weary,  they  relieved  me  in  turn  from 
the  oars.  We  were  four  days  in  making  the  circuit 
of  the  lake,  but  the  guinea  they  paid  me  made  me 
richer  than  I  have  ever  been  since. 

At  the  northwest  corner  of  the  lake  was  a  beauti- 


KILLING   MY   FIRST   DEER.     249 

ful  little  bay,  stretching  landward  some  five  or 
six  rods  by  two  or  three  in  width.  Above  it  the 
branches  of  tall  oaks  and  elms  were  intertwined, 
and  the  wild  grapes  that  crept  up  their  great  trunks, 
spread  their  net- work  all  over  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
and  made  with  their  broad  leaves  an  arbor  through 
the  arches  of  which  the  sun  never  shone.  The  water 
of  this  little  bay  was  clear  as  crystal,  and  the  white 
pebbles  on  the  bottom,"  some  three  or  four  feet  down 
in  the  water,  were  as  visible  as  though  nothing  but 
air  was  above  them.  At  the  head  of  the  bay,  a 
cold  spring  that  came  gushing  up  at  a  few  rods  dis 
tant,  entered.  From  this  little  bay  I  have  caught, 
first  and  last,  hundreds  of  speckled  trout  weighing 
from  half  of  a  pound  to  three  or  four  times  that 
weight.  But  it  is  all  filled  up  now — stores  and 
shops,  and  a  street,  and  docks,  and  a  great  high 
wall  occupy  the  place  of  that  little  bay,  and  those 
old  elms  and  oaks,  and  that  spring,  have  all  disap 
peared.  I  killed  my  first  deer  as  he  stooped  his 
head  to  drink  of  the  water  of  that  little  bay.  I  had 
watched  him  from  my  hiding-place  for  an  hour,  as 
he  came  browsing  along  the  side  of  the  hill.  Just 
as  the  sun  was  going  down,  he  stepped  from  the 
thick  bushes  on  to  the  pebbly  beach,  and  after  look 
ing  all  around  him,  and  snuffing  the  air,  he  stepped 
confidently  into  the  water  to  slake  his  thirst.  My 
rifle  was  upon  him,  the  ball  that  sped  from  it  pene 
trated  his  brain,  and  he  fell  dead.  Further  south, 
stood  a  tall  sycamore,  the  roots  of  which  were  laved 
11 


250  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

by  the  water ;  upon  the  dead  branches,  near  the 
top  of  which,  was  a  favorite  perch  for  the  fish-hawk, 
as  he  watched  for  his  prey.  Occasionally  a  bald 
eagle  would  alight  there  to  plume  himself,  and 
watch  for  the  wild  ducks  that  frequented  the  lake. 
Further  south  still,  were  a  few  acres  of  low  marshy 
ground,  where  the  main  inlet  entered,  where  the 
musk-rats  built  their  houses,  and  the  mink  and  the 
otter  stole  along  the  margin  in  pursuit  of  prey. 
The  inlet  took  its  rise  some  seven  or  eight  miles  up 
the  valley,  in  a  multitude  of  large  springs,  and  it 
was  full  of  the  speckled  trout.  Let  us  pause  here, 
and  call  up  some  of  the  old  settlers,  whose  farms 
extended  from  this  "big  creek,"  as  it  was  called, 
which  flowed  along  through  the  centre  of  the  val 
ley,  back  to  the  hills.  Judge  BAKER,  I  believe,  was 
the  first  white  man  who  stuck  his  stake  in  that  val 
ley,  and  commenced  the  war  against  the  ancient 
forests,  that  has  been  carried  on  ever  since  with 
such  relentless  vigor.  His  farm  is  now  in  posses 
sion  of  his  son,  and  a  most  beautiful  one  it  is — rich 
in  all  that  belongs  to  agriculture,  and  cultivated  to 
a  charm. 

JUDGE  BAKER  was  a  most  remarkable  man, 
strong  in  physical  strength,  one  calculated  to  en 
dure  the  hardships  of  a  new  country,  but  stronger 
still  in  native,  vigorous,  common  sense.  I  remem 
ber  him  well.  In  his  latter  years,  when  his  early 
industry  had  relieved  him  from  the  necessity  to 
labor,  he  was  a  reading  man,  and  was  always  a 


ONE   OF   THE   FIRST  SETTLERS.  251 

thoughtful  one.  He  was  the  first  who  explored 
that  region  with  a  view  to  settling  there.  He  came 
from  Pennsylvania  up  the  valley  of  the  Conhocton, 
and  reaching  the  place  where  the  village  of  Bath 
now  stands,  struck  off  through  the  valley  towards 
the  head  of  this  lake.  The  forest  around  the  lake 
was  exceedingly  dense,  and  before  reaching  it  he 
climbed  into  a  high  tree,  to  take  a  look  about  him. 
He  was  not  aware  of  its  proximity,  and  when 
he  had  reached  the  topmost  branches  of  the  tree, 
there  it  lay  within  fifty  rods  of  him,  its  waters  calm 
and  still,  unruffled  by  a  wave  or  a  ripple.  Two 
Indians  were  paddling  their  canoe  along  the  shore, 
going  down  the  lake,  while  several  deer  were  feed 
ing  among  the  grass  and  water  lilies  that  grew 
about  the  mouth  of  the  inlet.  I  have  listened  often 
and  often  to  the  old  man's  description  of  this  beau 
tiful  sheet  of  water,  as  he  then  saw  it  for  the  first 
time.  How  he  descended  from  his  perch  on  the 
tall  old  elm,  and  worked  his  way  to  the  pebbly 
beach,  and  how  calm  and  still  it  was,  how  the  tall 
forest  trees  cast  their  shadows  out  over  the  water 
as  the  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west.  How  solemn 
and  moveless  the  hills  stood  around.  How  the 
trout  leaped  in  their  gleesomeness  from  the  surface, 
and  schools  of  the  yellow  perch  made  the  water 
boil  in  spots  around.  How  he  shot  a  deer  that  was 
feeding  along  the  margin ;  how  gently  but  gloomi 
ly  the  night  shadows  gathered  around  him ;  how 
the  fireflies  flashed  their  little  torches  in  the  dark- 


252  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

ness ;  how  he  slept  on  his  bed  of  boughs,  in  a  brush 
shanty  built  by  himself;  how  gloriously  the  sun 
came  up  in  the  morning  over  the  eastern  hills,  cast 
ing  his  brightness  on  the  rippling  waters,  and  mak 
ing  them  glisten  in  the  sunlight,  like  a  sheet  of  fire. 
I  remember,  as  I  heard  him  describe  the  scene, 
how  I  thought  I  should  like  to  have  been  with  him 
on  his  exploring  tour  that  time,  and  looked  upon 
the  lake  as  it  lay  there  all  alone,  surrounded  only 
by  those  old  forests,  and  navigated  only  by  the 
wild  men  of  the  woods.  It  would  have  been  a 
thing  to  remember  always. 

My  father  came  there  some  years  later,  but  while 
the  lake  was  still  surrounded  almost  entirely  by 
woods.  True,  there  were  at  long  intervals  clearings 
along  the  shore.  But  its  primitive  wildness  was 
gone.  Civilization  began  to  develop  itself  there  as 
long  ago  as  I  can  remember,  and  I  could  only 
watch  its  progress  as  it  moved  forward. 

My  father  had  become  security  for  a  friend  in  the 
loan  of  money,  and  to  indemnify  himself  from  loss, 
had  taken  a  mortgage  upon  a  negro,  (slavery  exist 
ed  then  in  this  State.)  The  debt  fell  upon  my  father, 
and  he  became  the  owner  of  a  man.  Old  Shadrach 
was  a  Virginian  by  nurture,  but  an  African  by  birth, 
having  been  imported  in  his  infancy.  He  had  a 
mortal  fear  of  snakes  and  toads,  and  he  could  be 
frightened  into  anything  by  the  threat  of  putting  a 
snake  or  a  toad  in  his  bed.  I  call  him  old,  because  he 
was  between  forty  and  fifty  at  my  earliest  recollection, 


A  FRIGHTENED   NEGRO.        253 

and  of  course  became  older  before  he  died.  Old  Sha 
drach  ran  away  regularly  two  or  three  times  a  year. 
He  would  stay  away  sometimes  a  fortnight,  some 
times  a  month,  and  on  two  or  three  occasions  so 
long  that  my  father  began  to  congratulate  himself 
upon  being  rid  of  him  entirely.  But  some  morning 
old  Shadrach  would  come  crawling  out  from  the 
hay  mow,  and  promise  "massa"  that  he  would 
never  run  away  again  as  long  as  he  lived.  Sha 
drach,  as  I  said,  stood  in  mortal  fear  of  snakes. 
He  was  one  day  fishing  in  a  canoe  on  the  lake,  and 
drew  up  what  he  took  to  be  a  rattlesnake.  He 
dropped  his  pole  in  horror  and  leaped  overboard, 
yelling  and  screaming  for  help  as  if  a  thousand  In 
dians  were  scalping  him.  He  could  swim  like  a 
duck,  and  he  struck  out,  screaming  in  horror  at 
every  pull.  Upon  reaching  the  shore  he  broke  like 
a  quarter-horse  for  the  house.  My  father,  who  was 
at  a  short  distance,  hurried  up,  to  know  the  reason 
of  the  outcry.  "  Massa,"  cried  Shadrach  in  all  the 
earnestness  of  terror,  "de  lake  is  full  of  rattle 
snakes."  "Gret  out,  you  woolly -pated  rhinoceros," 
replied  my  father,  "  who  ever  heard  of  rattlesnakes 
in  the  water?"  My  father  went  out  in  another 
canoe  to  the  one  in  which  Shadrach  had  been  fish 
ing,  and  upon  securing  the  pole,  which  was  floating 
about,  found  that  Shadrach  had  hooked  a  great  eel, 
a  fish  by  no  means  common  in  the  lake.  But  Sha 
drach  regarding  it  as  belonging  to  the  family  of 


254  COUNTRY   KAMBLES, 

snakes,  never  trusted  himself  alone  after  that  on 
the  water. 

Let  us  pass  along  down  on  the  eastern  shore, 
close  along  under  the  hill.  The  land  is  rugged 
here,  the  hill  rising  in  steep  acclivity  several  hun 
dred  feet.  It  is  early  morning.  See  how  the  sun 
light  first  rests  upon  the  hills  on  the  western  side 
of  the  lake.  Kemember  it  is  all  woods  there ;  see 
the  shadow  retreating  in  a  long  line  down  the  side 
of  the  hill ;  see,  it  has  reached  the  water.  It  is  ten 
o'clock,  and  we  are  still  in  the  shade.  We  are  five 
miles  from  the  head  of  the  lake,  in  a  beautiful  little 
bay  under  the  lee  of  "  Welles'  Point."  The  clear 
ing  that  we  see,  is -that  of  Dr.  Welles,  the  father  of 
the  Hon.  Henry  Welles,  one  of  the  Judges  of  the 
Supreme  Court.  Dr.  Welles  was  one  of  the  pio 
neers  of  the  region  along  the  lake.  He  was  a  man 
of  energy  and  learning,  and  of  infinite  usefulness 
in  the  early  settlement  of  the  country.  This  is  the 
only  clearing  in  sight,  save  that  from  which  we 
started.  (We  are  speaking  of  times  "  long  ago.") 
His  log  house  stands  back  from  the  bay  in  which 
our  canoe  is  floating.  I  have,  when  a  child,  accom 
panied  my  father  and  mother  on  a  visit  to  Dr. 
Welles — not  in  a  carriage,  along  a  pleasant  road 
skirted  by  green  fields,  but  in  a  canoe  or  skiff;  my 
mother  seated  in  the  stern  with  a  trolling  line  in  her 
hand,  with  the  hook  a  hundred  feet  or  more  behind 
her ;  myself  seated  in  the  bow  and  my  father  row- 


GOOD   OLD   TIMES.  255 

ing.  I  have  travelled  that  way  more  than  once, 
listening  to  the  songs  that  my  father  and  mother 
sang  as  we  sailed  along,  and  have  seen  her  draw  in 
many  a  trout  on  the  way.  Good  old  times  those, 
when  the  men  in  that  region  "  chopped  down  and 
chopped  up"  acres  and  acres  of  woods ;  when  they 
"  sheared  their  own  fleece  and  wore  it."  Let  us 
rest  in  this  little  bay  and  talk  of  the  times  of  old, 
when  everything  was  wild  and  natural,  before 
steamboats  came  ploughing  their  way  through  these 
waters,  or  the  scream  of  the  steam-whistle  was 
heard. 

Dr.  WELLES  was  the  first  settler  within  miles  of 
this  locality.  He  came  from  Columbia  county,  in 
the  summer  of  17 — ,  cleared  a  few  acres,  and  put 
up  a  log  house,  and  the  next  summer  brought  his 
family  to  reside  here.  Boards  were  scarce  in  those 
days.  When  he  built  his  house  he  had  enough  for 
the  roof  and  the  floors,  but  not  for  the  doors. 
When  his  family  took  possession,  they  hung  blank 
ets  at  the  opening  for  doors,  and  the  family  for  sev 
eral  nights  slept  on  beds  made  up  on  the  floor. 
The  Doctor  brought  with  him  a  negro  slave,  who 
rejoiced  in  the  distinguished  cognomen  of  Scipio 
Africanus,  which  by  such  liberties  as  white  people 
take  with  the  names  of  colored  persons,  was  stripped 
of  its  euphony,  and  reduced  to  simple  Sip.  Old 
Sip,  with  the  rest,  had  his  bed  in  a  corner.  One 
morning  it  was  discovered  that  his  face  was  paler, 
and  his  hair  straighter  than  common,  his  great  white 


256  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

eyes  had  a  bolder  prominence.  His  hand  trembled 
like  that  of  a  man  who  had  indulged  in  a  debauch 
over  night,  and  his  words  were  tremulous  and  inco 
herent.  Something  was  evidently  wrong  with  Sip. 
Nobody  knew  of  his  having  been  sick;  he  had 
made  no  complaint,  he  had  uttered  no  groan,  he 
had  lain  abed  after  the  others  were  stirring,  with 
the  blanket  drawn  partly  over  his  head,  leaving  only 
his  great  eyes  glistening  the  more  brightly  in  con 
trast  with  the  ebony  of  his  skin.  The  Doctor  rous 
ed  him  from  his  bed,  got  him  up  on  end,  questioned 
and  cross-questioned  him,  but  could  get  nothing 
coherent  from  him,  and  it  was  not  till  a  strong  ap 
plication  of  old  Jamaica,  that  Sip's  recollection 
came  back,  and  enabled  him  to  tell  his  story.  He 
was  laying  awake  long  after  the  others  had  gone  to 
sleep,  when,  as  he  affirmed,  a  great  black  animal 
pushed  aside  the  blanket  that  hung  in  the  place  of 
a  door,  and  walked  around  to  the  beds  that  were 
ranged  on  the  floor,  paused  a  moment  at  Sip's  bed, 
and  then  walked  leisurely  out.  There  were  two 
things  confirmatory  of  Sip's  story.  First,  he  was 
frightened  by  something  as  near  out  of  his  wits 
as  it  was  possible  for  a  human  being  to  be ;  and 
secondly,  there  was  found  on  the  boards  of  the  floor 
several  tracks  resembling  those  made  by  a  bear, 
when  his  foot  is  wet  with  dew,  and  the  bottom  of  it 
covered  with  earth.  Whatever  the  truth  of  the 
matter  may  have  been,  the  Doctor  believed  the  as 
sertion  of  Sip,  and  the  collateral  evidence  of  the- 


A  BEAR  INSTEAD   OF   A   DEER.  257 

tracks,  and  always  supposed  that  a  bear  had  invad 
ed  the  privacy  of  his  dwelling  that  night.  This 
anecdote  I  had  from  Judge  WELLES,  who  is  not  a 
man  to  indulge  in  fictions. 

It  was  a  common  thing  for  the  deer  to  swim  the 
lake  in  the  summer  time,  and  many  were  taken  by 
the  Doctor's  family  by  pursuing  them  with  a  canoe 
in  the  water.  On  one  occasion,  a  deer,  as  was  sup 
posed,  was  seen  swimming  across  the  lake,  from  the 
west,  towards  the  eastern  shore,  and  a  daughter  of 
the  Doctor,  who  subsequently  was  the  wife,  and  is 
now  the  widow  of  the  late  General  GEO.  McCLURE, 
together  with  Sip,  put  out  in  a  canoe  in  pursuit. 
Away  off  in  the  forest,  among  the  new  settlements, 
young  ladies  are  more  courageous  than  they  are  in 
the  cities,  and  come  to  understand  woodcraft,  and 
love  the  wild  sports  of  the  forest  and  lake  almost  as 
well  as  their  brothers  do.  I  have  seen  those  who 
could  fire  a  rifle  with  the  precision  of  a  marksman, 
who  could  row  a  skiff  or  paddle  a  canoe  with  the 
best,  who  were  successful  anglers  for  the  speckled 
trout,  and  could  take  the  salmon  trout  with  a  troll 
ing  line  on  the  lake.  And  yet,  they  lacked  nothing 
of  the  natural  refinement  and  innate  modesty  that 
belong  to  the  true  woman.  I  said  the  daughter  of 
Doctor  Welles  and  Sip  started  in  pursuit  of  the 
deer  that  was  swimming  the  lake.  He  swam  but 
slowly,  and  they  easily  overtook  him.  The  young 
lady  was  in  the  stern  of  the  canoe,  and  Sip  was  in 
the  bow.  As  they  approached  the  game,  Sip's  eyes 
11* 


258  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

began  to  open  with  astonishment.  "  Golla,  Missus," 
he  cried,  "  dat  deer  am  black — my !  he  ain't  got  no 
horns,  he  ain't  got  no  long  ears,  nudder."  As  they 
approached  nearer,  Sip's  paddle  was  suspended,  and 
his  teeth  began  to  chatter — "Dat  no  deer,  dat  de 
debil,"  he  shouted,  as  he  tumbled  over  in  the  bot 
tom  of  the  canoe  in  utter  affright.  But  whatever  it 
was,  the  canoe  was  close  upon  it,  and  then  it  turned 
to  give  battle.  It  was  a  huge  bear,  and  such  a  set 
of  ivory  as  it  showed  was  a  sight  to  see.  In  the 
astonishment  of  the  moment,  the  canoe  had  float 
ed  within  reach  of  the  now  furious  animal,  and 
he  threw  his  great  paw  up  on  the  bow.  "Let  go 
dat,"  cried  Sip,  as,  with  a  last  effort  of  despair,  he 
struck  a  furious  blow  with  his  paddle.  The  bear 
caught  the  oar  with  his  paw,  and  hurled  it  to  a  dis 
tance  in  the  water,  but  his  hold  of  the  canoe  was 
loosed,  and  by  a  skilful  movement,  the  young  lady 
sent  it  beyond  his  reach.  A  spare  paddle  was  in 
the  canoe,  and  the  way  Sip  and  she  pulled  for  the 
shore,  was  astonishing.  They  arrived  in  time  for 
the  Doctor  to  return  with  his  gun  and  axe,  and 
dispatch  the  animal  before  he  reached  the  shore. 
See  those  stately  old  elms  on  the  point,  how  they 
tower  up  towards  the  sky,  stretching  abroad  their 
leafy  arms  in  dalliance  with  the  summer  winds,  and 
casting  their  morning  shadows  away  out  on  the 
water.  They  grew  there  from  the  seed  planted  by 
the  hand  of  nature,  and  where  they  stand  others  as 
gigantic  have  grown,  till  weakened  by  decay  or 


PASSING  DOWN   THE  LAKE.     259 

riven  by  the  lightning,  the  storm  hurled  them  to 
the  ground,  to  rot  where  they  fell.  In  the  times  of 
old  the  deer  crouched  in  the  heat  of  noon  in  their 
shade.  The  elk  may  have  browsed  upon  the  tender 
plants  beneath  them,  or  the  bear  clambered  up 
their  great  trunks.  But  they  are  gone  now,  and 
the  willow,  and  smaller  shrubbery  planted  by  the 
hand  of  man,  occupy  their  place.  Strange  that 
those  stately  old  elms  should  have  been  removed  to 
give  place  to  trees  of  a  lower  dignity,  and  a  meaner 
growth.  Strange  that  when  civilization  sweeps 
away  the  old  forests,  it  does  not  leave  more  of  the 
ancient  monarchs  of  the  woods  standing  where  they 
grew,  as  memorials  of  its  triumphs  over  nature,  and 
as  witnesses  of  the  achievements  of  human  strength 
and  labor. 

Let  us  pass  on  down  the  lake.  I  must  remind 
you  that  we  have  swept  away  these  fields,  and 
houses,  and  barns.  We  have  restored  the  forest  in 
its  primitive  grandeur.  We  have  banished  the 
horses,  and  cattle,  and  sheep,  and  have  called  back 
the  wild  animals  that  belonged  here  in  the  times  of 
old.  Five  miles  below  "  Welles'  Point"  we  enter 
another  little  bay  or  cove,  formed  by  a  point  of 
land  running  far  out  into  the  lake.  I  was  here 
more  than  thirty  years  ago.  It  was  all  wild  then, 
all  woods.  There  was  neither  farm-house  nor  clear 
ing  in  sight.  On  the  voyage  round  the  lake  with 
the  two  Englishmen,  as  before  mentioned,  we 
rowed  silently  round  this  point,  and  saw  a  noble 


260  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

deer  swimming  out  from  the  shore,  as  if  starting 
across  the  lake.  He  had  antlers  like  a  stag,  and 
when  we  came  in  sight,  he  wheeled  towards  the 
shore  with  the  snort  of  a  war-horse.  The  English 
men  had  a  rifle  along,  and  as  he  was  almost  at  the 
shore,  one  of  them  fired  upon  and  killed  him.  He 
was  a  noble  animal.  We  dined  upon  venison  that 
day,  and  a  more  delicious  meal  I  have  never  tasted, 
though  it  was  cooked  in  a  primitive  way,  by  a  fire 
built  on  the  shore  of  the  lake.  From  this  little 
bay  let  us  cross  over  to  Bluff  Point.  We  are 
opposite  to  it  now.  See  how  it  looms  up  towards 
the  sky,  covered  with  a  dense  forest.  The  top  of 
that  hill  is  the  highest  land  in  sight,  by  hundreds 
of  feet.  It  is  no  mountain  peak,  piercing,  in 
stately  barrenness,  the  heavens,  but  a  rounded 
promontory,  rising  on  three  sides  from  the  water, 
and  seems  to  us,  as  we  look  upon  it,  like  a  great 
island  in  the  midst  of  the  lake.  It  seems  close  by 
us,  and  yet  to  reach  its  base  we  must  row  a  mile 
and  a  half.  See  how  the  "  West  Branch"  winds 
around,  and  seems  to  hide  away  behind  and  among 
the  hills.  Look  away  off  towards  Penn  Yan. 
There,  too,  the  lake  seems  to  steal  around  behind  high 
promontories,  to  lose  itself  in  the  forest  of  great 
trees.  It  was  a  beautiful  view  from  this  point 
"  long  ago,"  and  it  is  beautiful  still.  Then  it  was 
romantic  and  wild,  as  nature  made  it,  with  all  the 
old  things  standing  round,  as  she  placed  them  when 
she  threw  this  earth  finished  from  her  hands. 


THE   SWEET- VOICED   BIRDS.    261 

Now  it  is  robbed  of,  its  ancient  dress,  and  decorat 
ed  by  the  ingenuity,  the  labor,  and  the  industry  of 
man.  Fields  are  where  forests  stood,  and  the  things 
that  civilization  gathers  around  it,  make  up  the 
landscape.  Which  is  the  more  beautiful,  I  leave 
others  to  determine.  For  myself,  I  love  nature  in 
her  old  primitive  garments,  and  I  love  civilization 
with  her  smiling,  though  painted  face.  I  love  the 
old  woods,  and  I  love  the  fields.  I  love  the  wild 
things,  and  I  love  the  tame  things  too.  All  I  bar 
gain  for  is  to  leave  me  the  birds,  the  happy,  the 
free,  the  sweet- voiced  birds.  You  may  sweep  away 
the  forests.  It  is  best  that  they  should  be  removed. 
It  is  necessary  for  the  progress,  and  to  meet  the 
necessities  of  humanity.  Launch  your  steamboats 
upon  lake  and  river,  and  send  forth  your  iron 
horse,  thundering  along  the  valleys,  spread  out 
your  farms,  push  back  the  woods  with  the  fields, 
build  your  cities  and  towns,  destroy  the  deer  and 
the  wild  animals  that  must  perish  with  the  forests, 
but  leave  me  the  birds,  the  happy  singing-birds,  and 
I  am  content. 

We  will  now  row  westward,  around  the  base  of 
Bluff  Point,  six  miles  to  the  head  of  the  West 
Branch.  On  both  sides  of  the  branch  the  hills  rise 
with  greater  or  less  acclivity,  but  nowhere  so  steep 
as  to  prevent  cultivation.  At  the  head  of  the 
branch  is  a  beautiful  valley  stretching  away  to  the 
northwest,  through  the  centre  of  which  winds  a 
small  stream  alive  with  the  speckled  trout.  Pines, 


262  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

and  elms,  and  oaks,  with  the  wild  cherry,  butternut 
and  maple  trees,  constitute  the  principal  growth  of 
timber.  Remember  we  are  speaking  still  of  "long, 
long  ago."  There  is  a  neat  village  here  now  sur 
rounded  by  rich  farms.  It  was  all  forest  when  I 
passed  a  night  on  the  banks  here  on  my  first  voyage 
round  the  lake.  We  will  pass  along  south  again 
on  our  return  to  the  head  of  the  lake.  The  hill 
on  the  west  side  of  the  lake  and  the  rising  grounds 
for  miles  were  covered  with  a  forest  of  pines.  High- 
growing  stately  trees,  like  the  masts  of  a  tall  ship. 
No  axe  had  as  yet  marred  their  beauty,  and  they 
stood  here  clothed  in  fadeless  green,  and  murmur 
ing  softly  and  solemnly  as  the  breeze  stirred  in  their 
foliage.  This  forest  of  pines  has  been  swept  away, 
and  you  see  fields  of  grain  and  pastures,  and 
meadows  where  they  stood. 

We  pass  along  to  Ingersoll's  Point,  three  miles 
from  the  head  of  the  lake.  We  will  land  here,  and 
see  how  this  point  of  land  was  formed.  We  go  a 
few  rods  on  the  main  land,  and  we  enter  a  ravine  or 
gulf  as  it  is  called.  The  hill-side  is  steep,  but  we 
walk  on  a  level,  straight  into  the  hill.  A  little 
stream  goes  laughing  along  over  the  smooth  stones. 
It  is  tranquil  and  pleasant  now,  good-humored  and 
gay ;  but  when  the  snows  are  melting  and  the  spring 
freshets  come,  it  is  a  mad  and  a  mighty  torrent, 
roaring  and  foaming  down  the  gorge,  vast  in  volume 
and  resistless  in  power.  The  rocks  begin  to  rise  on 
either  hand  higher  and  higher,  and  as  we  advance 


FOAMING  CASCADE.  263 

a  perpendicular  wall  of  slate  rock  rises  on  either 
side  to  the  height  of  a  hundred  feet.  Before  us 
now  the  little  stream  trickles  with  a  gentle  voice 
down  the  shelving  rocks,  from  away  up  towards 
the  top  of  the  hill,  leaping  from  ledge  to  ledge. 
Our  progress  is  stayed  here,  unless  we  choose  to 
climb  where  a  false  step  or  a  slip  on  the  smooth 
rock  would  send  us  skiving  in  the  gulf  below.  It 
is  a  goodly  sight  when  the  "  stream  is  up,"  to  see 
how  it  cascades  down  from  the  plain  above  into  the 
gorge  below,  rushing,  and  tumbling,  and  roaring  in 
white  foam  over  the  beetling  rocks.  "  Ingersoll's 
Point,"  and  the  acres  of  flat  land  stretching  out 
into  the  lake,  were  made  by  the  earth  excavated 
from  the  hillside  by  the  stream  when  its  back  was 
up. 

Captain  GREIG  is  in  his  element  to-day.  He  has 
a  pic-nic  party  on  board  from  Penn  Yan,  and  they 
dine  here  on  -'  Ingersoll's  Point."  He  has  a  company 
of  a  hundred  "  fair  women  and  brave  men,"  married 
and  single,  all  cheerful  and  happy.  They  have  a 
band  on  board,  and  quadrilles,  and  waltzes,  and 
polkas  occupy  the  young  people,  while  the  elders 
look  on,  and  like  myself,  think  of  the  times  when 
they  were  young,  when  they  "  went  out  a  gypsey- 
ing,"  and  were  merry  in  the  dance.  The  dinner 
was  spread  on  "the  point,"  under  the  shadows  of 
the  brave  old  elms  and  on  the  green  grass  beneath 
their  spreading  branches.  Towards  evening  all 
were  on  board  again,  and  the  steamer  started  out  on 


264  COUNTRY   EAMBLES. 

her  return  voyage.  As  the  sun  went  down  we  swept 
across  the  head  of  the  lake,  in  view  of  the  pleasant 
village  of  Hammondsport,  and  then  headed  away 
for  Penn  Yan.  The  darkness  came  down  calmly 
and  stilly.  The  winds  were  hushed,  not  a  ripple 
was  on  the  water  save  the  long  wake  in  the  rear  of 
the  boat.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  the 
echoes  that  came  back  from  the  hills,  returning  with 
a  mellow  harmony  the  music  of  the  band ;  and  it 
was  pleasanter  still  to  look  upon  the  happy  faces  of 
the  young  people  as  they  glided  about  in  the  mazes 
of  the  dance,  or  chatted  in  the  fulness  of'their  glee. 
That  was  an  evening  to  be  remembered,  the  return 
of  that  party  from  their  pic-nic  on  "  Ingersoll's 
Point." 

I  bid  good-bye  to  the  Crooked  Lake  with  regret. 
I  could  linger  here  for  months,  busy  with  old 
memories  and  scenes  of  the  u  long,  long  ago"- 
scenes  that  like  our  youth  belong  to  the  return- 
less  past,  to  be  recalled  only  in  fancy,  that  can  come 
back  to  us  only  in  dreams  of  the  night. 


I  am  at  Bath,  the  county  seat  of  Steuben.  This  is 
another  beautiful  village,  nestling  quietly  among 
the  hills  of  the  Southern  tier.  It  was  among  the 
early  settlements  of  what  was  once  called  the  West 
ern  Country.  It  was  located  by  CHARLES  WIL 
LIAMSON,  the  first  proprietor  of  several  millions  of 


THKIVING  VILLAGE   OF  BATH.  265 

acres,  known  as  the  Pultney  estate.  A  pleasant 
farm  that — one  that  might  afford  an  industrious  man, 
who  exercised  a  proper  degree  of  economy,  a  good 
living,  and  enable  him  to  portion  off  with  a  fair 
number  of  acres  a  reasonably  large  family  of  chil 
dren.  It  was  not  so  valuable  when  Sir  WILLIAM 
PULTNEY  became  the  proprietor  as  it  is  now,  as  it 
passed  into  his  hands,  as  I  have  heard,  for  some 
thing  like  a  shilling  an  acre. 

Bath  is  a  pleasant  and  a  thriving  village,  remark 
able  for  its  neatness  and  healthful  location.  On  the 
East  is  a  high  mountain,  rising  in  steep  acclivity 
some  eight  or  nine  hundred  feet,  whose  rugged  sides 
can  never  be  cultivated,  and  along  whose  base  the 
Conhocton  river  flows.  In  the  early  times,  before 
the  Erie  Canal  was  built,  Bath  was  the  outlet  to 
market  for  the  grain  of  a  broad  sweep  of  country. 
It  was  regarded  as  the  head  of  navigation,  and  was 
to  be  the  site  of  a  great  city.  You  will  not  of  course 
suppose  that  great  ships  visited  its  port,  or  even  the 
periogues,  formerly  so  common  on  the  waters  of  the 
great  West.  There  was  but  one  direction  to  navi 
gation  from  Bath,  and  that  was  down  stream.  Arks 
were  built  of  pine  planks,  which  would  carry  some 
thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  bushels.  They  were 
queer-shaped  craft,  not  very  well  calculated  to  stand 
a  rough  sea,  but  they  were  made  water-tight,  and 
cost  from  $75  to  $100  each.  These  were  floated  to 
the  storehouses  that  stood  down  by  the  river,  and 


266  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

when  the  spring  freshets  came,  the  grain  was  turned 
into  them  in  bulk,  and  covered  from  the  rain ;  with 
a  pilot,  and  a  hand  at  each  long  oar  that  projected 
away  out  at  bow  and  stern,  started  with  their  freight 
on  a  returnless  voyage  towards  the  Chesapeake  Bay. 
Their  course  was  down  the  Conhocton  to  the  Che- 
mung  river,  down  that  river  to  the  Susquehanna, 
and  down  that  noble  river  to  tide  water.  These 
frail  vessels  did  not  always  reach  their  destination. 
About  one  out  of  ten  emptied  its  contents  in  the 
river  as  it  was  dashed  against  some  unknown  ob 
struction,  or  was  stranded  on  the  shore  through  the 
unskilful  ness  of  its  pilot.  Thousands  upon  thou 
sands  of  bushels  of  grain  found  their  way  to  market 
through  this  precarious  channel,  and  Bath  was 
looming  up,  when  the  canals  were  built  and  its 
glory  departed.  The  ark  of  the  Conhocton  passed 
into  history,  the  rats  took  possession  of  the  store 
houses,  board  after  board  fell  from  their  sides,  the 
roofs  caved  in,  the  beams  rotted  away;  at  length 
what  was  left  of  them  tumbled  to  ruin,  and  the  place 
where  they  stood  is  now  a  meadow  where  the  mower 
swings  his  scythe,  unconscious  that  he  treads  on 
historical  ground.  The  course  of  trade  from  Bath 
for  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  has  been  to  the 
North,  through  the  Seneca  and  Crooked  Lake,  and 
the  Cayuga  and  Seneca  Canals  to  Montezuina,  and 
then  on  the  Erie  Canal  to  the  Hudson,  and  so  to 
New  York.  It  is  now  changing  again,  not  to  the 


DAYLIGHT  AMONG  THE  HILLS.  267 

ancient  channel  of  the  river,  but  to  the  New  York 
and  Erie  Kailroad,  and  so  to  New  York  by  that 
great  thoroughfare. 

The  mountains  about  Bath  were  famous,  years 
ago,  for  deer,  and  I  have^  spent  many  an  exciting 
hour  in  the  chase  after  them.  It  was  a  pleasant 
thing  to  start  for  the  hills  while  the  light  was  just 
breaking  in  the  East,  while  a  few  stars  glimmered 
faintly  in  the  sky,  and  the  grayness  of  twilight 
lingered  in  the  valleys.  To  feel  the  grass  crisp 
with  frost  beneath  your  footfall,  and  see  the  mist 
rising  from  the  river,  and  creeping  up  the  sides  of 
the  hills.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  stand  on  the 
brow  of  that  high  green  hill  over  against  the  village, 
just  as  the  sun  was  corning  up  from  his  resting- 
place,  and  see  how  he  threw  his  early  light  on  the 
tops  of  the  hills  on  the  east  and  west ;  to  mark  how 
the  shadow  retreated  from  their  sides  down  towards 
the  valley,  and  when  he  rose  above  the  forest  trees* 
how  gloriously  he  started  on  his  course.  It  was 
pleasant  to  look  upon  the  clustered  houses  away 
down  below  you,  and  watch  how  the  smoke  came 
up  from  chimney  after  chimney,  and  went  wreathing 
upward  towards  the  sky.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing 
to  look  upon  the  farms,  the  fields,  and  watch  the 
flocks  of  sheep  as  they  started  from  the  fold,  wend 
ing,  in  the  early  morning,  in  a  long  line  towards 
their  pasture,  and  the  cows  gathering  around  the 
place  of  their  milching.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to 
look  upon  that  little  lake,  sleeping  so  quietly  just 


268  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

east  of  the  village,  and  afar  off  to  the  north  the 
Crooked  Lake,  stretching  away  and  hiding  itself 
among  the  highlands  that  surround  it.  All  this  I 
have  looked  upon  more  than  once,  while  a  pair  of 
noble  stag  hounds  were  crouched  at  my  feet,  impa 
tient  for  the  chase.  Turning  from  the  pleasant 
landscape  beneath  me,  I  would  strike  into  the 
woods.  The  forest  extended  back  unbroken  for 
miles  then,  and  when  I  had  passed  a  short  distance 
from  the  brow  of  the  hill,  I  would  lay  on  the  dogs. 
Glad  enough  they  would  be  for  the  freedom  to  hunt. 
Far  off  in  the  woods,  perhaps,  the  voice  of  the 
staunch  old  hound  would  be  heard,  deep  and  long 
drawn  out.  After  a  moment  it  would  be  heard 
again.  The  interval  between  his  baying  would 
become  shorter  and  shorter,  until  the  voice  of  both 
dogs  would  break  out  in  a  fierce  and  continuous 
cry,  and  then  I  would  know  that  the  game  was  up 
and  away. 

I  need  not  tell  you  of  the  music  there  is  in  the 
voice  of  a  pair  of  stag-hounds  in  the  deep  forests  of 
a  still  morning.  How  it  echoes  among  the  moun 
tains,  and  swells  up  from  the  valleys ;  how  it  comes 
like  a  bugle  from  the  forest  dells,  and  glancing  away 
upwards,  seems  to  fill  the  whole  air  with  its  joyous 
notes.  Now  the  sound  of  the  chase  grows  fainter 
and  fainter,  as  it  recedes,  until  it  is  lost  in  the  dis 
tance,  and  the  low  voice  of  the  morning  breeze, 
whispering  among  the  forest  trees,  alone  is  heard. 
Again  faint  and  far  off  is  heard  the  music  of  the 


EXCITEMENT   OF   THE    CHASE.  269 

chase,  swelling  up,  and  then  dying  away,  like  the 
sound  of  a  flute  in  the  distance,  when  the  night  air 
is  still — clearer  and  more  distinct  it  comes  as  the 
dogs  course  over  some  distant  ridge.  Now  it  is 
loud  and  joyous,  making  the  woods  vocal  with  the 
melody  of  voices.  Again  the  music  dies  away  as 
the  dogs  plunge  into  some  hollow  way  until  it 
seems  to  come  up  like  the  faint  voice  of  an  echo 
from  some  leafy  dell.  Again  it  swells  louder  and 
fiercer,  as  the  chase,  changing  its  direction,  sweeps 
up  the  valley  towards  you.  Louder  and  louder 
grows  the  music.  You  hear  the  measured  bounds 
of  the  deer  as  he  goes  crashing  on  his  way  to  the 
river,  fleeing  from  the  destruction  that  is  howling 
on  his  trail.  He  passes  beyond  the  range  of  your 
rifle,  in  his  frightened  course,  and  the  dogs  rush  by 
you,  running  breast  high  on  his  track,  and  your 
Tally  Ho !  gives  fresh  impulse  to  their  speed,  and 
a  fiercer  and  more  joyous  strain  to  their  music. 
You  hear  in  the  distance  the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle, 
that  comes  echoing  up  from  the  valley  beneath  you. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  music  of  the  hounds  is  still, 
and  you  know  that  your  friend  stationed  at  the  river 
has  secured  his  game. 

The  public  buildings  and  the  best  residences  of 
Bath  are  fronting  its  beautiful  square  of  some  six  or 
eight  acres.  In  the  centre  of  the  square  "long 
ago,"  stood  a  tall  pine  that  for  years  was  known  as 
the  "  liberty  tree."  It  was  left  when  the  old  forest 
was  swept  away,  and  stood  there  solitary  and  alone 


270  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  But  it  faded  in 
seeming  sorrow  over  the  fate  of  its  companions,  that 
had  been  so  ruthlessly  destroyed.  Its  green  branches 
died,  one  after  another,  till  a  bare  trunk  with  leafless 
arms  stretching  out,  as  if  in  hopeless  and  barren 
desolation,  was  all  that  was  left  of  that  once  stately 
monarch  of  the  woods.  It  was  at  last  hurled  to  the 
earth  by  the  strong  winds,  and  the  place  of  the 
"liberty  tree"  was  vacant. 

I  studied  law  in  this  pleasant  village,  under  one 
whom  I  can  never  cease  to  respect.  He  resides 
here  still,  an  honored,  and  justly  honored  citizen. 
A  sore  affliction  has  recently  jarred  among  his  heart 
strings.  May  the  wound  that  was  inflicted  be  healed 
by  the  affectionate  kindness  of  those  that  remain  to 
comfort  him,  a"nd  may  he  find  consolation  in  the 
memories  that  come  up  from  the  graves  of  the  good, 
who  pass  away  in  the  pride  and  strength  of  their 
early  manhood. 

There  are  "  solid  men"  in  Bath,  too,  as  well  as 
in  Canandaigua.  Men  who,  by  their  indomitable 
energy,  have  risen  from  comparative  poverty  to 
great  wealth.  Who  started  in  life  with  only  strong 
hands  and  stout  hearts,  but  who  have  mastered 
fortune.  Men  who  are  still  in  the  vigor,  the  strong 
time  of  life,  and  who  can  reckon  their  dollars  by 
hundreds  of  thousands.  The  old  settlers,  the  pio 
neers  of  Bath,  are  all  gone.  Many  of  them  I  knew 
"long  ago."  The  tombstones  that  stand  in  the 
quiet  grave-yard,  that  record  their  virtues,  bear  no 


"GENTLEMEN   OF   THE   JURY!"  271 

lying  epitaphs,  nor  lines  of  bitter  irony  respecting 
their  worth. 

I  said  I  studied  law  in  Bath.  Let  me  relate  an 
anecdote  connected  with  the  first  suit  I  ever  had  the 
honor  of  appearing  in  as  counsel.  My  friend,  II. 
"W.  KOGERS,  now  of  Buffalo,  was  my  fellow-student 
then,  and  he  will  pardon  me  for  relating  the  triumphs 
of  the  genius  of  two  young  men  who  were  seeking 
distinction  under  some  difficulties.  A  worthless 
scamp  had  been  arrested  for  some  misdemeanor — 
assault  and  battery,  I  believe — and  being  too  poor 
to  employ  other  counsel,  applied  to  my  friend 
EOGERS  and  myself  to  defend  him,  promising  to 
pay  us  a  small  fee  for  assisting  him  in  his  trouble. 

We  readily  undertook  his  defence,  promising 
ourselves  no  light  harvest  of  reputation  from  our 
first  effort  at  forensic  eloquence.  A  jury  was  sum 
moned,  and  three  magistrates  sat  in  solemn  judg 
ment  to  hear  the  evidence  against  our  unfortunate 
client.  We  had  a  day  to  prepare,  and  the  speeches 
with  which  we  intended  to  astonish  the  court,  and 
confound  the  jury,  were  profoundly  studied  and 
reflected  upon.  Well,  the  evidence  was  closed,  and, 
as  was  arranged  beforehand,  I  rose  to  address  the 
jury,  and  my  friend  was  to  follow.  I  got  as  far  as 
"  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,"  and  there  I  stuck,  like  a 
pig  in  the  fence.  Not  another  sentence  of  my  great 
speech  could  I  utter,  to  save  me.  At  length,  in 
despair,  I  told  the  jury,  "  that  as  I  was  to  be  fol 
lowed  by  my  elder  and  abler  associate,  I  would  oc- 


272  COUNTRY    KAMBLES. 

cupy  no  more  of  their  time,"  and  sat  down  in 
perfect  confusion  and  shame.  Friend  Eogers  then 
rose  to  deliver  his  maiden  speech.  lie,  too,  got  as 
far  as  "  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury,"  and  there  he  stuck, 
as  I  had  done  before  him.  There  was  no  use  in 
trying  to  go  on.  The  great  speech  was  gone,  not 
a  word  of  it  could  he  catch,  not  a  sentence  could 
he  bring  to  mind.  He  was  in  a  hopeless  dilemma, 
but  he  extricated  himself  by  saying  to  the  jury 
that  "  the  case  had  been  so  ably  summed  up  by  the 
counsel  that  had  preceded  him,  that  he  felt  it  unne 
cessary  to  add  a  word  to  the  argument,"  and  he  sat 
down  with  the  big  drops  standing  on  his  forehead. 
We  were  laughed  at  som^  by  those  who  gathered 
to  hear  our  maiden  efforts.  The  best  of  the  joke 
was,  that  friend  HARRY  was  several  years  in  find 
ing  out  that  he  had  perpetrated  a  good  thing  at 
my  expense. 

There  were  formerly  many  excellent  trout  streams 
around  Bath.  Spalding's  run,  Neal's  creek,  the  Camp- 
belltown  creek,  the  Michigan  creek,  the  Twelve-mile 
creek,  and  Townsend's  run,  and  many  other  pleas 
ant  streams  that  came  down  from  the  hills  were 
famous  in  their  day.  That  was  before  sawmills 
and  high  dams,  and  the  other  utilitarian  devices 
of  civilization  poisoned  the  waters,  or  the  mul 
titude  of  anglers  had  destroyed  their  speckled  in 
habitants.  Just  below  Bath,  within  a  mile  of  the 
village,  is  Lake  Salubria,  a  beautiful  little  sheet  of 
water  of  some  two  or  three  hundred  acres.  It  has 


BEOOK   TROUT.  273 

neither  inlet  nor  outlet  above  ground,  but  its  waters 
are  clear  and  pure.  I  was  one  of  three  or  four 
that  "long  ago"  put  a  hundred  or  more  brook  trout 
that  we  caught  in  the  Townsend  run  with  a  net,  alive 
into  this  lake.  I  remember  the  day  well.  We  rig 
ged  a  half  hogshead  with  water  on  a  lumber  wagon 
and  started  for  the  run.  We  waded  around  in  the 
water,  and  punching  with  long  poles  under  the  old 
logs  and  caverned  banks,  and  having  secured  over 
a  hundred,  started  for  home.  The  heavens  gathered 
blackness,  and  one  of  the  severest  storms  I  have 
ever  known  overtook  us.  The  lightning  flashed 
and  the  thunders  rolled  through  the  heavens,  and 
the  rain  came  rushing  from  the  clouds  in  a  deluge 
upon  us.  My  Panama  hat  hung  like  an  elephant's 
ears  about  my  shoulders,  and  my  very  boots  were 
filled  with  the  drenching  rain.  We  persevered, 
notwithstanding  the  storm,  and  got  our  hundred 
trout,  all  alive  and  active,  into  Lake  Salubria. 
They  did  not,  however,  multiply  as  we  hoped  they 
would.  For  years  one  would  hear  occasionally  of 
a  great  trout  being  caught  in  the  lake,  till  at  last 
they  were  all  gone.  They  lacked  the  ripples  and 
the  running  water.  They  lived  to  be  old,  and  then 
died  without  progeny,  "making  no  sign." 


I  am  at  Hornellsville,  where  the   Buffalo  and 
New  York  Kailroad  forms    a   junction  with  the 
12 


274  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

New  York  and  Erie,  in  the  valley  of  the  Canisteo. 
Steuben  is  my  native  county,  and  I  am  at  home 
among  its  high  hills  and  beautiful  valleys.  Thirty 
years  ago  this  town  was  a  hamlet.  A  store,  a  wood 
tavern,  a  dwelling  house  or  two,  made  up  the  vil 
lage,  and  a  solitary  stage  coach  bore  the  only  visit 
ors,  and  constituted  the  only  means  of  conveyance 
to  and  from  its  sequestered  location.  In  the  winter 
an  army  of  lumbermen  swarmed  in  the  forests 
around,  and  the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the  crashing 
of  the  tall  pines  as  they  thundered  to  the  ground, 
broke  the  frozen  silence  of  the  woods.  When  the 
spring  freshets  came,  the  raftsmen  started  on  their 
long  journey  down  towards  the  Susquehanna,  and 
away  to  the  broad  Chesapeake,  and  when  they  de 
parted,  Hornellsville  was  alone  for  the  balance  of 
the  season.  But  now  it  has  its  brick  blocks,  its 
long  streets,  its  tall  steeples,  its  machine  shops,  its 
factories,  and  its  mills,  and  the  hum  of  business 
and  the  clank  of  machineiy  is  everywhere  heard. 
Long  trains  of  cars,  drawn  by  the  iron  horse,  are 
rushing  along  almost  hourly ;  the  old  stage-coach, 
with  its  fat  driver,  is  gone,  and  the  sound  of  his 
horn  will  be  heard  there  never  again.  Broad  farms 
are  spread  out  in  the  valley,  and  the  fields  are 
creeping  up  the  sides  of  the  hill.  Blessings  on  the 
valley  of  the  Canisteo ;  blessings  on  the  streams 
that  come  down  from  the  mountains  in  which  I 
have  so  often,  in  days  that  are  past,  angled  for  the 
speckled  trout.  Blessings  on  the  pine-clad  hills 


A   HUNTING   ANECDOTE.         275 

over  which  I  have  hunted  the  wild  deer,  and  whose 
echoes  I  have  so  often  wakened  by  the  thrilling 
music  of  my  hounds.  Those  brave  old  hills  are 
here  yet,  covered  with  their  summer  foliage — defy 
ing  by  their  steepness  the  farmer's  plough,  and 
laughing  at  what  here  I  call  the  desolation  of  civil 
ization.  Fields  may  be  green  in  the  valleys,  and 
flocks  and  herds  may  eat  lazily  of  the  rich  pastures, 
but  the  rugged  sides  of  these  hills  will  remain  un 
changed.  The  tall  pines  may  fall  victims  to  the 
lumberman's  axe,  but  the  sides  of  these  hills  as 
they  rise  in  steep  acclivity  towards  the  sky,  will 
always,  when  the  summer  smiles,  wear  their  gar 
ments  of  green  in  spite  of  human  progress,  and  the 
wasting  of  the  beauties  of  natural  scenery  that 
marks  its  career.  Let  me  tell  you  a  hunting  anec 
dote.  I  was,  many  years  ago,  on  a  hunting  excur 
sion  with  my  old  friend  Andrew  Helmer  (as 
staunch  a  woodman  as  ever  "sighted  a  rifle")  on 
the  hills  that  skirt  this  beautiful  valley.  We  were 
driving  the  ridges,  as  it  is  termed.  From  the  log- 
way  at  the  brow  of  the  hill,  down  which  the  pine 
logs  were  rolled,  a  timber  road  ran  straight  back, 
into  what  was  then  a  forest  of  many  miles  in  ex 
tent.  In  this  road  we  stationed  ourselves  some 
•sixty  rods  apart,  but  in  plain  sight  of  each  other. 
There  were  two  runways  for  the  deer,  one  of  which 
was  beyond  him  and  which  he  was  to  watch,  and 
the  other  on  the  opposite  side  of  me,  which  I  was 
to  take  care  of.  Having  taken  our  positions,  a  boy 


276  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

was  sent  into  the  woods  to  lay  on  the  dogs.  In  a 
short  time  we  heard  the  cry  of  the  hounds — the 
game  took  a  turn  over  a  distant  ridge — the  hounds 
in  hot  pursuit — and  their  music  was  a  pleasant 
thing  to  hear  in  that  calm  autumnal  morning.  In 
a  short  time  the  deer  swept  round  the  base  of  a 
hill,  and  instead  of  taking  to  the  usual  runway, 
dashed  forward  between  Helmer  and  myself.  The 
woods  were  thick,  and  we  could  only  judge  of  his 
whereabouts,  by  his  measured  bounds  and  the  crash 
of  the  brash,  as  he  sped  in  his  terror  from  the  cry 
that  was  close  behind  him.  I  knew  that  he  could 
be  seen  only  as  he  crossed  the  timber  road,  and 
what  was  done  for  his  destruction  must  be  done 
quickly.  I  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  narrow 
road,  and  raised  my  rifle  to  my  shoulder.  As  I 
did  so,  there  stood  Helmer  with  his  rifle  poised  and 
pointed  straight  at  me,  and  it  seemed  to  rne  that  I 
could  look  into  the  barrel,  away  down  to  the  ball, 
which,  if  it  should  chance  to  miss  the  deer,  would 
stand  a  smart  chance  of  hitting  me.  I  knew  Hel 
mer  too  well  to  doubt  of  his  taking  the  chances  of 
firing  whether  he  hit  me,  or  I  hit  him,  or  we  both 
hit  the  deer.  A  large  pine  stood  invitingly  close 
by  the  road — I  lost  no  time  in  getting  behind  it, 
but  as  the  deer  came  crashing  up  to  the  road,  L 
leaned  out,  and  as  he  leaped  across,  fired  and  dodged 
back.  Helmer's  rifle  answered  to  mine  like  an 
echo,  and  the  deer^fell  in  the  edge  of  the  brush, 
dead ;  but  one  ball  struck  him,  and  that  I  claimed. 


WHO   KILLED  THE   DEER?         277 

Helmer  claimed  it  as  his,  and  though.  I  never  gave 
up  the  point,  yet  truth  compels  me  to  admit  there 
were  two  slight  circumstances  in  his  favor.  The 
ball-hole  was  on  his  side  of  the  deer,  and  we  cut  a  rifle 
bullet  from  a  tree,  slightly  out  of  range  of  the  deer, 
and  the  side  of  that  tree  where  we  found  the  bullet  was 
towards  where  I  stood. 


II. 


NIAGARA  —  PORTAGE  —  WELLSVILLE  —  COUDERS- 
PORT. 

I  AM  here  in  sight  of  old  Niagara,  and  within  the 
sound  of  its  thundering  voice.  I  have  never  before 
seen  this  exhibition  of  grandeur  spread  out  here,  to 
humble  the  pride  of  man,  and  show  forth  the  power 
and  majesty  of  God.  I  look  for  the  first  time  upon 
this  stupendous  panorama,  so  full  of  all  that  is  grand 
and  glorious,  all  that  is  beautiful  and  sublime. 
Ilere  is  the  drainage  of  more  than  150,000  square 
miles  of  the  great  lakes,  those  inland  seas  that  lay 
out  West  and  North,  the  hundred  rivers  and  streams 
that  come  into  them  from  the  hills  and  broad  plains, 
and  the  thousand  springs  that  bubble  up  away  down 
in  their  silent  depths  —  all  these  "mighty  waters" 
are  concentrated  into  a  narrow  gorge  of  less  than 
half  a  mile  in  width,  and,  impelled  by  a  resistless 
hand,  they  go  boiling  and  heaving,  roaring  and 
struggling,  like  some  gigantic  monster  in  his  wrath 
and  agony,  rushing  forward  in  their  matchless 
power,  to  plunge  in  wild  fury  down  beetling  cliffs 
into  the  returnless  depths  below.  The  voice  of 


THE   MIGHTY   CATARACT.         279 

the  cataract  is  never  silent.  In  summer  and  win 
ter,  in  the  brightness  of  noonday  and  the  dark 
ness  of  midnight,  its  roar  is  on  the  air.  When 
the  great  flood  subsided,  from  the  time  when  the 
dove  brought  back  the  olive  branch,  and  the  raven 
went  forth  on  his  solitary  and  returnless  flight — 
when  the  Ark  rested  on  Ararat,  it  was  heard, 
shaking  the  earth  with  its  roar ;  and  the  sound  that 
then  startled  the  wilderness  will  be  heard  till  the 
crack  of  doom — that  mighty  flood  will  roll  on,  over 
the  shelving  rocks  and  down  the  stupendous  pre 
cipice,  till  the  time  appointed  for  the  earth's  destruc 
tion  shall  come.  I  have  stood  on  the  brow  of  that 
precipice,  and  looked  upon  the  rushing  waters 
as  they  were  hurled  into  the  deep  abyss ;  I  have 
stood  at  its  base,  and  looked  upward  at  the  beetling 
cliffs,  and  seen  that  flood  as  it  seemed  to  me  rush 
ing  in  appalling  grandeur  from  the  sky — around 
me  was  the  mist  and  the  spray,  and  arching  above 
me  was  the  rainbow,  glowing  in  prismatic  bright 
ness,  like  that  which  spans  the  rear  of  the  retiring 
storm.  I  have  looked  upon  the  cataract  in  the 
calmness  of  a  clear  night,  and  seen  the  stars  as  they 
stole  out  one  after  another  from  the  deep  vault  of 
the  sky,  as  if  to  watch  its  eternal  flow.  The  voices 
that  elsewhere  break  the  stillness  of  nocturnal  re 
pose  are  here  forever  silent,  as  if  awed  by  the  sub 
limity  of  its  power.  But  one  so  and  is  heard,  deep, 
solemn,  and  ceaseless — never  changing,  never  losing 
its  intensity.  When  the  storm  rages,  it  is  heard 


280  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

above  the  storm.  When  the  winds  rave  and  the 
tornado  sweeps  by,  it  is  heard  above  the  winds,  and 
the  wild  fury  of  the  tornado.  'Tis  the  voice  of  the 
Cataract ! 

But  who  shall  describe  Niagara  ?  Let  it  flow  on 
in  its  majesty,  till  man  shall  conquer  its  fury,  and 
make  it  subservient  to  his  will;  till  he  shall  "lay 
his  hand  upon  its  mane"  and  tame  it  into  subjec 
tion  ;  till  human  genius  shall  chain  it  to  the  great 
water-wheel,  and  make  it  a  motor  to  endless  ma 
chinery — grind  corn  to  satisfy  human  hunger,  and 
throw  the  shuttle  and  spin.  Unless  some  new  dis 
covery  shall  render  valueless  water-falls  as  motors, 
even  Niagara  will,  in  the  course  of  human  progress, 
one  day  be  compelled  to  become  utilitarian,  and 
perform  an  active  part  in  the  great  drama  of  life. 

There  is  one  thing  in  regard  to  Niagara  that 
strikes.  It  can  have  no  rival.  Saratoga  may  be 
come  antiquated — the  sea-shore  a  resort  only  for 
invalids.  Fashions  may  change  in  regard  to  pleas 
ure  resorts.  Kival  locations  may  compete  by  op 
posing  attractions.  But  Niagara  can  have  no  rival. 
The  flood  will  sweep  on  over  the  precipice,  the 
waters  will  boil  and  foam,  they  will  struggle  and 
heave  down  the  rapids,  rushing  on  forever,  and  the 
roar  of  the  cataract  will  be  there  through  all  time. 
Its  deep,  thundering  voice  of  power,  will  be  heard 
in  its  solemn  intensity ;  its  ceaseless  sermon  of  the 
majesty,  the  omnipotence  of  God,  will  be  preached 
while  the  waters  flow,  and  stupendous  precipices 


A  NIAGARA  IN  MINIATURE.     281 

confine  them  within  the  changeless  gorge.  In  all 
the  world  there  is  but  one  Niagara,  and  all  the 
world  will  visit  the  mighty  show.  You  may  build 
up  a  city  there,  you  may  make  long  streets,  and 
line  them  with  houses,  and  crowd  them  with  peo 
ple  ;  you  may  rob  it  of  its  wild  scenery,  and  strip 
it  of  the  things  that  nature  spread  out  all  around  it, 
you  may  construct  canals  and  erect  machinery,  but 
still  the  great  cataract  will  be  there,  and  the  world 
will  travel  hundreds  and  thousands  of  miles  to  see 
it.  They  will  go  to  the  brow  of  the  precipice  to 
look  down,  and  to  the  base  of  the  precipice  to  look 
up.  They  will  involve  themselves  in  the  mist  and 
the  spray  for  the  sake  of  gazing  upon  the  rainbow 
that  is  above  them.  They  will  ramble  on  Goat 
Island  by  moonlight  listening  to  the  roar-  of  the 
waters,  or  enjoy  its  cool  and  pleasant  shades  at 
noon-day.  You  may  roll  your  great  water-wheels 
in  their  ceaseless  rounds ;  you  may  harness  your 
machinery  and  set  your  great  hammers  in  motion ; 
your  hundred  strong  hands  may  hurl  the  ponder 
ous  sledge  against  the  ringing  anvil ;  you  may  set 
your  ten  thousand  puny  machinists  at  pounding  the 
iron  and  driving  the  spikes,  make  all  the  noise  you 
can,  and  the  roar  of  the  cataract  will  drown  it  all. 


I  am  at  Portage,  and  a  wild  place  it  is  too — 
Niagara  in  minature.     I  am  standing  on  the  high 
12* 


282  COUNTKY  RAMBLES. 

bridge.  A  train  of  cars  has  just  rushed  by  me  away 
up  in  the  sky,  higher  than  the  top  of  the  tallest  forest 
tree,  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  the  surface 
of  the  water  below.  Think  of  a  train  of  cars  thun 
dering  through  the  air,  higher  than  the  weathercock 
on  the  loftiest  steeple,  hurled  forward  at  a  speed  of 
forty  miles  to  the  hour.  It  passes  within  six  feet  of 
me,  there  is  a  blast  of  wind,  a  rushing,  roaring 
sound,  and  the  train  is  gone — it  vanishes  around  a 
point  of  the  forest,  and  while  I  stand  in  mute  aston 
ishment,  the  snort  of  the  iron  horse  is  heard  miles 
away.  But  the  bridge  remains  firm;  there  is  no 
swaying  or  yielding ;  a  slight  tremor,  and  the  deep 
rumble,  is  all  that  tells  you  you  are  not  on  the  solid 
ground.  The  genius  of  man  has  conquered  the 
"great  -gulf"  that  intervened  between  the  per 
pendicular  precipices,  and  you  pass  in  security  over 
the  mighty  chasm,  as  on  a  level  plain.  Just  below 
the  bridge,  the  river  leaps  down  a  precipice  of  sixty 
feet.  Further  down,  but  in  sight,  it  leaps  down 
again  some  eighty  feet;  and  lower  still,  it  plunges 
again  down  a  precipice  of  the  same  depth.  You 
will  remember  that  the  surface  above  these  falls  is 
level.  You  look  down  from  the  bridge,  and  your 
companion  in  the  gorge  below  looks  like  a  boy,  and 
you  wonder  why  the  lady  that  is  on  his  arm  is  not 
in  pantaletts  and  kilts ;  that  a  child  so  small  should 
dress  like  a  woman,  and  carry  a  parasol,  surprises 
you.  Pass  down  to  the  lower  falls,  take  your  stand 
by  a  dwarfed  cedar  that  grows  out  from  the  rocks 


A  GREAT  LUMBER  REGION.    283 

and  shoots  upward,  and  look  over  the  cliff  into  the 
fearful  depths  below.  You  are  nearly  five  hundred 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  water,  and  there  is  nothing 
but  air  between  you  and  the  boiling  stream.  You 
can  plunge  down  from  that  dizzy  height,  if  you  will, 
and  rest  in  quiet  beneath  the  wave.  There  will  a 
voice  whisper  in  your  ear  to  take  the  fearful  leap. 
Beware  of  the  tempter  and  stand  back,  for  there's  a 
fascination  in  the  whirling  waters,  and  your  brain 
may  yield  to  its  power. 

"  Come  on,  sir,  here's  the  place.    Stand  still — 
How  fearful  and  dizzy  'tis  to  cast  one's  eyes  so  low 
The  crows  and  choughs  that  wing  the  midway  air 
Show  scarce  so  gross  as  beetles  :  half  way  down 
Hangs  one  that  gathers  samphire ;  dreadful  trade. 
Methinks  he  seems  no  bigger  than  his  head. 
The  fishermen  that  walk  upon  the  beach 
Appear  like  mice.     The  murmuring  surge, 
That  on  the  unnumbered  idle  pebbles  chafes, 
Cannot  be  heard  so  high.     I'll  look  no  more, 
Lest  my  brain  turn,  and  the  deficient  sight 
Topple  down  headlong." 


I  am  at  Wellsville,  a  village  in  Allegany  county, 
on  the  Erie  Railroad,  and  on  the  borders  of  the  State 
of  New  York.  It  is  situated  on  the  Genesee  rjvei4, 
which  here  is  a  comparatively  small  stream.  vlt  ijs 
the  lumber  depot  for  a  broad  sweep  of  country. 
Boards  and  plank  are  piled  up  here  in  vast  quan 
tities,  waiting  transportation  to  the  east,  and  long 


284  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

lines  of  teams  are  drawing  more  from  the  country 
beyond.  I  counted  twelve  loaded  wagons  pass  the 
door  of  the  public  house  where  I  am  stopping,  within 
half  an  hour.  I  have  been  here,  too,  years  since, 
when  there  was  not  an  acre  cleared  for  miles  below 
this,  towards  the  north ;  when  it  was  all  wilderness 
from  a  few  miles  south  of  Angelica,  away  to  the 
southern  and  eastern  slope  of  this  portion  of  the 
Allegany  mountains.  I  once  came  with  a  party  of 
fishermen,  among  whom  was  SAMME  FITZHUGH, 
Esq.,  of  Livingston  county,  a  man  known  for  many 
years  through  all  the  Genesee  country,  for  his  social 
qualities,  and  his  skill  and  science  as  a  sportsman. 
He  has  gone  to  his  rest  now.  We  left  Angelica  on 
the  occasion  spoken  of,  and  went  up  the  Genesee  to 
where  Philipsburgh  now  stands.  There  was  a  dam 
there  which  had  been  constructed  years  before,  in 
connection  with  which  a  mill  and  fulling  mill  had 
been  built;  but  the  mill  had  been  burned  down,  and 
the  place  deserted.  There  was  no  one  living  within 
several  miles  of  it.  We  followed  the  river  for  some 
three  or  four  miles  above  where  Wellsville  now 
stands,  and  then  camped  down  for  the  night.  In 
the  morning  we  started  down  the  stream  again ;  our 
object  was  in  part  to  examine  the  timber  land,  which 
one  of  our  party  had  bought,  or  was  about  buying, 
and  in  part  to  have  a  good  time  with  the  trout  in 
the  river.  It  was  no  trick,  then,  to  take  trout  in 
the  Genesee  river  weighing  from  a  quarter  of  a 
pound  to  a  pound  and  a  half,  beautiful  yellow- 


SHKEWD   TAX   GATHEKERS.      285 

finned  fellows.  The  country  was  wild  enough  then ; 
I  have  never  seen  it  since  until  now,  and  can  hardly 
believe,  as  I  look  upon  it,  that  it  is  the  same  locality 
that  I  saw  then,  covered  with  gigantic  pine  trees, 
and  away  beyond  civilization.  I  have  been  won 
dering,  as  I  heard  the  cars  passing,  what  we  would 
have  thought,  as  we  lay  in  our  blankets,  sleeping 
011  boughs  that  night  that  we  "  camped  out,"  away 
off  here  in  the  woods  "  long  ago,"  had  we  heard  the 
scream  of  the  steam- whistle,  and  the  roar  of  a  train 
of  cars  coming  thundering  along  the  gorges  of  the 
mountains,  as  they  now  do,  startling  the  sleeping 
echoes,  and  chasing  slumber  from  our  eyes.  I've  a 
notion  we  should  have  stared  some. 


I  am  at  Coudersport,  the  county  seat  of  Potter 
county,  in  the  State  of  Pennsylvania.  I  have  crossed 
the  high  ridge  that  separates  the  waters  of  the 
Genesee  from  those  of  the  Allegany.  This  is  a 
sequestered  little  place,  nestling  among  the  hills,  on 
one  of  the  remote  branches  of  the  Allegany.  The 
people  here  have  a  semi- weekly  mail,  and  some  of 
them  take  a  weekly  paper,  but  not  many.  They 
are  engaged  in  building  a  very  large  court-house  for 
so  small  a  place,  and  upon  inquiry  I  find  it  is  built 
mainly  by  taxes  levied  upon  the  immense  tracts  of 
non-resident  lands  of  the  county.  I  say  mainly  by 
such  taxes,  because,  although  the  tax  purports  to  be 


286  COUNTRY    KAMBLES. 

general  and  equal  upon  all  lands  according  to  their 
value,  yet  a  shrewd  assessor,  who  knows  the  resi 
dent  from  the  non-resident  owners,  can  so  discrim 
inate  as  to  lay  the  burden  upon  the  shoulders  of 
those  who  own  immense  tracts  and  live  at  a  distance. 
This,  it  strikes  me,  is  no  bad  way  of  providing  means 
to  erect  good  public  buildings,  without  burdening, 
to  a  very  serious  extent,  those  who  are  encounter 
ing  the  difficulties  incident  to  the  settlement  of  a 
new  country. 

We  leave  Coudersport  en  route  for  the  Sinne- 
mahoning,  a  river  that  has  its  source  in  the  same 
range  of  highlands  with  the  Genesee  and  the  Alle- 
gany.  This  ought,  "upon  principle,"  to  be  the 
highest  land  east  of  the  Mississippi.  It  can  be 
proved  to  be  so  by  a  very  simple,  and  apparently 
conclusive  course  of  argument.  The  Genesee  river 
rises  here,  and  flows  off  north  to  Lake  Ontario,  and 
so  through  the  noble  St.  Lawrrence  to  the  ocean. 
The  Allegany  flows  west  and  south,  and  is  the  re 
motest  eastern  and  northern  branch  of  the  Ohio,  that 
finds  its  way  to  the  ocean  by  the  Gulf  of  Mexico, 
while  the  Sinnemahoning  reaches  "the  great  deep" 
through  the  Chesapeake  Bay.  But  high  as  this  region 
is — and  it  is  high  enough  and  cold  enough  for  all 
practical  purposes — it  is  by  no  means  the  highest 
region  of  the  Alleganies. 


III. 

LAKB    CHAMPLAIN. 

BURLINGTON — KEESEVILLE — AU  SABLE  FORKS — 
FRANKLIN  FALLS — SARANAC  LAKE— ROUND  LAKE 
— TUPPER  LAKE — BOG  RIVER — ON  THE  BANKS — 
THE  BLACK  FLY. 

I  AM  on  the  Champlain,  in  the  steamer  America. 
She  is  a  staunch  and  beautiful  boat,  under  the 
command  of  Captains  Flagg  and  Mayo,  two  as  in 
telligent  and  gentlemanly  commanders  as  can  be 
found  on  the  American  waters — men  who  under 
stand  their  business  thoroughly,  and  whose  atten 
tion  and  politeness  to  their  passengers  are  worthy 
of  all  imitation.  This  steamer  is  a  most  staunch 
one,  furnished  with  great  elegance  and  care,  and 
she  goes  ploughing  on  her  way  with  a  steadiness 
and  speed  rarely  equalled.  I  write  this  in  a  state 
room,  while  the  boat  is  in  motion,  and  you  rnay 
judge  of  the  quiet  way  in  which  we  move  along. 

I  have  been  for  hours  on  the  deck  of  the  boat, 
watching  by  the  moonlight  the  changing  scenery 
along  the  shore.  On  the  one  hand  are  the  moun 
tains  of  Essex  looming  up  dark  and  shadowy,  their 


288  COUNTRY  RAMBLES. 

bare  heads  glistening  in  the  moonlight,  and  the 
forests  along  their  base  and  up  their  rugged  sides 
resting  in  sombre  blackness  like  a  shroud,  save 
where  here  and  there  some  bluff  and  bare  rock 
shines  out  midway  up  the  mountain.  Away  off  on 
the  right  are  the  Green  Mountains,  standing  out  in 
bold  relief  against  the  sky,  upon  which  the  starry 
covering  appears  to  rest,  or  behind  which  it  seems 
to  hide  itself.  Away  off  in  front  of  the  vessel  are 
islands,  seeming  with  their  green  trees  like  gigantic 
war  vessels  floating  darkly  on  the  Lake.  While 
behind  is  a  long  stream  of  light,  where  the  moon 
beams  are  thrown  back  by  the  agitation  of  the  wa 
ters.  By  the  way,  why  is  it  that  nobody  praises 
Champlain  ?  Why  have  tourists  neglected  to  chron 
icle  the  charming  scenery  around  it  ?  To  my  no 
tion,  it  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  sheets  of  water 
in  the  world. 

There  are  a  thousand  romantic  bays,  that  steal 
landward  around  jutting  promontories,  lying  in 
the  deep  shadow-like  entrances  to  immense  caverns ; 
a  hundred  beautiful  islands ;  green  fields  stretching 
away  to  the  base  of  the  hills,  tall  precipices  rising 
in  ragged  and  beetling  cliffs  right  up  from  the  deep 
waters,  upon  the  tops  of  which  stand  old  primeval 
trees,  like  sentinels  upon  the  battlements  of  some 
ancient  castle.  As  we  ploughed  along  in  view  of 
Ticonderoga  and  Crown  Point,  the  chimneys  of  the 
ruined  fortifications  stood  up  in  solemn  stillness, 
while  Mount  Defiance,  on  the  top  of  which  Bur- 


AN  IMAGINARY   PICTURE.      289 

goyne  planted  his  cannon,  looked  grimly  down  upon 
the  desolation  and  decay  beneath  it.  Did  you  ever 
try  to  call  up  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  men  whose 
names  history  has  linked  to  the  ruins  upon  which 
you  may  be  looking,  and  locating  them  in  imagina 
tion,  as  history  locates  them — make  them  do  again 
the  deeds  that  gave  them  immortality?  While  I 
sat  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer  as  we  passed  the 
ruins  on  these  points,  I  saw  in  imagination  the  little 
army  of  Ethan  Allen,  emerging  from  the  forest  on 
the  Yermont  side  of  the  Lake ;  I  saw  them  crossing 
the  narrow  channel  from  point  to  point ;  not  a  word 
was  spoken,  not  an  oar  splashed  in  the  water,  not  a 
sound  disturbed  the  stillness.  I  saw  their  muskets 
lowered,  lest  the  sheen  of  the  moonlight  from  their 
bright  barrels  or  from  their  bayonets,  might  attract 
the  notice  of  their  enemies.  I  saw  them  as  they 
landed  noiselessly  upon  the  beach  and  formed  into 
columns  for  attack.  I  looked  away  to  the  fort.  The 
ruins  were  gone.  The  fortification  stood  there  in 
its  strength.  I  saw  the  cannon  as  they  were  ranged 
along  the  top  of  the  walls  looking  threateningly 
over  the  waters.  I  saw  the  sentinels  as  they  march 
ed  back  and  forth,  unsuspicious  of  danger.  I  read 
their  thoughts  as  they  tramped  their  lonely  rounds. 
Their  hearts  were  away  across  the  ocean  to  their 
homes  in  their  native  land.  Parents,  brothers,  sis 
ters,  perchance  their  little  children  were  about  them, 
and  I  could  see  the  tears  gather  in  their  eyes  while 
memory  was  bringing  loved  faces  around  them. 


290  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

Suddenly  a  tumult,  a  wild  cry  of  alarm,  a  shout  of 
triumph  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night,  as  Allen 
and  his  sturdy  followers  came  plunging  over  the 
walls  into  the  very  heart  of  the  fort.  Resistance 
was  in  vain.  The  surprise  was  complete,  and  with 
the  firing  of  but  four  or  five  guns  and  the  death  of 
two  soldiers  the  stronghold  of  the  English  was  lost 
and  won.  I  saw  the  astonished  Briton  when  the 
surrender  of  his  post  was  demanded  in  the  name  of 
the  "  Great  Jehovah  and  the  Continental  Congress." 
I  saw  him  as  he  stood  in  his  desliabilk  surrendering 
his  sword  to  the  conquerors,  and  the  stars  and 
stripes  as  they  were  run  up  to  float  in  the  night 
winds,  and  while  the  shout  and  hurrah  of  victory 
echoed  among  the  mountains  and  went  floating  over 
the  Lake,  the  vision  melted  away.  The  dead  men 
went  back  to  their  graves,  the  ruins  as  they  have 
stood  for  fifty  years,  battling  with  time,  resumed 
their  solemn  shape,  and  desolation  and  decay  again 
came  over  the  place  where  brave  men  fought  and 
bled  and  died. 


I  am  at  Burlington,  the  largest  and  most  flourish 
ing  town  in  Vermont.  It  is  not  a  city.  Vermont 
has  but  one  city,  and  that  of  the  smallest.  This  is 
her  only  port.  She  lays  away  from  the  Ocean, 
inland,  and  the  Champlain,  until  recently,  was  her 
only  outlet  to  the  markets  of  the  great  cities.  This 


ISLANDS   IN   THE    LAKE.          291 

is  a  most  beautiful  town,  situated  on  an  elevated 
plain,  overlooking  the  lake.  From  the  College 
green  you  look  away  over  the  water,  on  the  one 
hand,  and  beautiful  rural  scenery  on  the  other. 
There  are  many  pleasant  situations,  fine  gardens, 
and  splendid  residences  in  Burlington ;  and  there 
are  many  "  solid  men"  here,  too ;  solid  in  wealth, 
in  business  capacity,  and  in  the  hospitalities  that 
adorn  life.  Looking  out  on  the  lake,  you  see  many 
beautiful  Islands,  conspicuous  among  which  is  one 
on  which  stands  the  light-house,  some  three  miles 
from  the  main  shore.  On  the  left  of  this,  and  mid 
way  between  it  and  another  beautiful  Island,  a  soli 
tary  rock  lifts  its  sharp  head,  some  twenty -five  feet 
from  the  surface,  remaining  there  always,  treeless 
and  shrubless,  all  alone,  throwing  back  the  waves 
when  the  winds  sweep  over  the  waters,  and  move 
less  and  solemn  when  the  moon  looks  down  on  the 
still  surface  of  the  lake.  Further  off,  still,  are  two 
small  Islands,  covered  with  tall  trees,  that  seem  to 
rise  right  up  from  the  water.  No  brush,  no  water- 
grass,  no  sandy  shore  surround  them;  but  they  ap 
pear  to  go  straight  up  from  the  deep  water,  and  in 
the  distance,  with  a  haze  in  the  atmosphere,  look 
like  great  war- vessels  with  a  press  of  black  canvass 
spread  from  invisible  masts.  Burlington  is  a  busy 
place.  I  see  far  out  on  the  lake  two  steamers, 
coming  in  opposite  directions  towards  the  docks, 
and  I  hear  the  roar  of  a  steam-whistle  off  to  the 
South,  as  a  train  of  cars  comes  thundering  in  from 


292  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

Boston,  while  another  iron  horse  is  rushing  with  a 
ponderous  train  from  House's  Point.  Here  and 
there,  all  over  the  lake,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 
are  seen  the  white  sails  of  smaller  craft,  moving  in 
every  direction ;  some  up  the  lake,  some  down, 
and  some  beating  across,  all  seeming  bent  on  pro 
gress  towards  or  from  a  market. 

Burlington  must  be  a  most  delightful  summer 
residence.  The  air  is  so  pure,  so  bracing,  the  drives 
so  pleasant  in  every  direction ;  the  scenery  around 
so  enchanting,  that  I  wonder  it  is  not  preferred  by 
everybody  to  the  crowded  and  cramped-up  places 
of  fashionable  resort. 

There  is  good  lake  fishing  at  Burlington.  In 
the  early  morning  before  the  sun  had  come  up  over 
the  eastern  hills,  I  went  out  with  a  boatman  on  the 
water ;  I  saw  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  as  they 
lighted  on  the  peaks  of  Essex.  I  saw  them  chase 
the  shadow  down  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  and 
I  saw  them  when  they  first  glanced  across  the  sur 
face  of  the  lake,  making  it  shine  like  molten  silver 
as  the  fresh  morning  breeze  swept  over  it.  I  hauled 
in  some  three  or  four  noble  fish  on  my  way  to  the 
light-house  Island,  and  as  many  more  on  my  return, 
on  a  trolling  line  of  three  hundred  feet  in  length. 
It  was  a  glorious  morning ;  the  breeze  was  so  fresh 
and  the  air  so  bracing,  that  I  was  tempted  to  shout 
and  hurrah  with  gladness,  as  I  floated  over  the 
water.  It  made  me  young  again.  The  spirit  of 
boyhood  came  over  me,  and  I  felt  as  of  old,  before 


WHEN   IGETEicn.  293 

gray  hairs  had  gathered  upon  my  head,  or  stiffness 
had  seized  upon  my  joints.  A  beautiful  and  a 
pleasant  town  is  Burlington.  The  lake  that  lays 
spread  out  before  it  is  beautiful.  Its  mornings  are 
glorious,  its  summer  breezes  bracing,  exhilarating, 
healthful ;  everything  around  it  is  beautiful,  heavenly 
in  the  summer  time,  and  between  you  and  I  when 
I  become  rich,  I  shall  have  a  country  seat  some 
where  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  College  parks, 
with  my  fine  horses  and  carriage,  my  boats  on  the 
lake,  my  rowers  dressed  after  the  latest  sailor 
fashion,  strong-armed,  and  skilful  in  the  use  of  the 
oar.  I  shall  have  my  trolling  lines,  and  all  the  ap 
paratus  for  fishing  in  perfection,  and  every  morning 
while  the  last  stars  are  shining  dimly  in  the  sky, 
struggling  with  the  morning  beams,  while  the  gray- 
ness  of  twilight  lingers  in  the  valleys,  I'll  be  out  on 
the  water,  to  welcome  the  rising  day,  and  haul  in 
the  bass,  the  pike,  and  the  pickerel.  Towards  even 
ing,  I'll  ride  round  the  country,  and  at  night  gather 
my  friends  around  me  and  be  jolly,  (not  with  wine 
or  strong  drink.  I  have  parted  company  with  them.) 
"Won't  we,  my  friend,  have  a  good  time  when  I  get 
rich  ? 


I  am  at  Keeseville,  a  pleasant  and  thriving  vil 
lage,  five  miles  from  the  Lake,  on  the  Au  Sable 
River.  Immense  quantities  of  nails  and  bar-iron 
are  made  on  this  stream,  at,  and  within  a  few  miles 


294  COUNTRY  RAMBLES. 

of  Keeseville.  There  is  a  capital  water-power 
here,  which  is  fully  occupied.  The  water-wheel 
travels  its  ceaseless  rounds.  The  bellows  are  puff 
ing,  the  fires  are  blazing,  and  the  gigantic  rollers 
are  in  motion.  The  nail-making  machines  are  con 
stantly  at  work,  day  and  night — the  clank  of  ma 
chinery  is  mingling  with  the  roar  of  the  waters.  It 
is  a  hot  day,  and  great  drops  of  sweat  are  chasing 
each  other  down  the  cheeks  of  the  stalwart  opera 
tives,  as  they  handle  the  blazing  iron,  drawing  it  at 
a  white  heat,  sparkling  and  throwing  off  scintilla 
tions  from  the  furnaces,  and  passing  it  through  the 
great  rollers,  or  lifting  the  melted  ore  from  its  bed 
of  fire,  and  placing  it  beneath  the  gigantic  pressing 
machine  which  converts  it  into  blooms.  This  opera 
tion  requires  strength  of  muscle,  as  well  as  of  con 
stitution,  and  powers  of  endurance.  It  requires  some 
skill,  too,  and  a  raw  hand  would  make  small  pro 
gress,  till  experience  has  taught  him  wisdom. 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing  to  see  one  of  these  great 
workshops  in  the  night  time.  The  glare  of  the  forgjM, 
the  intense  light  of  the  chunks  of  iron  as  they  came 
at  a  white  heat  from  the  blazing  furnace,  to  see 
them  pass  through  the  immense  rollers  as  they 
are  formed  into  fitness  for  nail-making,  coming  out 
from  the  pressing  machine  longer  and  longer,  in 
creasing  in  length,  stretching  out  and  running  along 
the  floor  like  fiery  serpents,  while  the  stalwart  oper 
atives  handle  them  with  iron  tongs,  as  if  they  were 
harmless  things. 


A  WONDERFUL   GORGE.          295 

The  Gorge  is  some  two  miles  below  Keeseville 
— one  of  the  greatest  curiosities  of  this  country. 
The  river  goes  roaring,  and  plunging,  and  cascad 
ing,  more  than  a  mile,  through  a  chasm  some  thirty 
feet  wide,  on  either  side  of  which  the  rocks  rise  in 
perpendicular  precipices  from  one  to  two  hundred 
feet  in  height.  On  the  top  of  these  ledges  you 
may  stand,  on  the  very  verge  of  these  great  high 
walls,  and  look  away  down  upon  the  boiling  waters 
as  they  go  surging  and  roaring  on  their  way.  This 
chasm  does  not  seem  to  have  been  worn  out  by  the 
river  in  its  everlasting  flow,  but  to  have  been  made 
by  the  parting  of  the  hills.  The  rocks  on  one  side 
are  counterparts  of  the  rocks  on  the  other,  as  if 
pulled  apart.  Kock  matches  rock,  and  shape  is 
fitted  to  shape.  An  indentation  on  the  one  side,  is 
matched  by  a  prominence  on  the  other,  and  you 
can  see  plainly  that  if  the  river  could  be  withdrawn, 
and  the  chasm  pressed  together,  the  two  sides 
would  fit  like  the  halves  of  an  apple  that  had 
been  cleft  by  the  blade  of  a  knife.  Above  Keese 
ville  are  evidences  that  a  lake  once  covered  what  is 
now  a  beautiful  valley,  stretching  away  for  miles 
to  the  southwest,  and  through  which  the  Au  Sable 
now  flows.  Where  now  are  rich  farms,  was  once 
the  bottom  of  this  lake,  and  fishes  sported  above 
the  fields  that  are  now  rich  meadows,  or  covered 
with  grain.  Some  mighty  power,  centuries  upon 
centuries  ago,  struggling  in  the  remote  depths  of 
the  earth,  upheaved  these  hills,  till  the  surface  part- 


296  COUNTRY  RAMBLES. 

ed,  leaving  this  Gorge,  through  which  the  pent-up 
waters  rushed,  emptying  the  lake  of  its  contents, 
and  giving  its  foundations  to  the  world  as  a  place 
for  man  to  beautify,  over  which  the  ploughshare 
should  pass,  and  his  flocks  and  herds  feed. 

Some  three  miles  west  of  Keeseville  is  Ilalleck's 
Hill,  standing  on  which,  and  looking  to  the  north, 
you  see,  not  a  rugged  mountain  scenery,  where 
giant  ranges  stretch  away,  and  tall  peaks  lift  their 
bald  heads  to  the  clouds.  There  is  no  desolation,  no 
wild  and  rocky  sterility,  but  a  beautiful,  level  plain, 
a  valley  reaching  away  for  miles,  rich  in  agricultu 
ral  products,  and  teeming  with  the  evidences  of 
wealth  and  civilization.  Away  off  to  the  right  is 
the  Champlain.  The  spires  of  Plattsburgh  may  be 
seen  in  the  distance,  seeming  to  rise  like  white  pil 
lars  from  the  depths  of  a  belt  of  forest,  while  in 
front  of  them  can  be  viewed  the  spot  where  was 
fought  the  naval  battle  of  Lake  Champlain,  in  the 
last  war.  The  beautiful  landscape  before  me  is  the 
valley  of  the  little  Au  Sable.  It  was  settled  by 
Quakers,  men  of  peace,  who  till  the  ground  in 
quiet,  and  never  go  up  to  the  wars  with  weapons 
of  destruction  in  their  hands.  The  spot  where  these 
peaceful  people,  startled  by  the  "booming  cannon, 
went  up  and  stood  to  view  the  conflict  on  the  Lake, 
when  McDoNOUGH  and  DOWNIE  fought  against 
each  other,  is  near  me.  These  men  of  peace  were 
patriots.  They  loved  their  country,  and  while 
from  principle  they  refrained  from  the  shedding  of 


BKAVE   MEN   AKE   SLEEPING.    297 

human  blood,  yet  their  hearts  and  their  prayers 
were  with  their  countrymen,  against  their  country's 
foes.  When  the  smoke  of  the  battle  floated  away, 
and  the  triumph  of  American  arms  was  manifest, 
there  went  up  a  shout  of  gladness,  a  loud  hurrah 
from  these  honest  Quakers,  which  showed  that  the 
"old  man"  was  strong  within  them. 

In  plain  view  from  where  I  stand  is  the  little 
Island  on  which  the  killed  in  that  memorable  battle 
were  buried.  There,  in  the  midst  of  the  lake,  side 
by  side  in  amity,  rest  the  bones  of  those  who  strug 
gled  against  each  other  on  that  day  of  mortal  strife. 
Death  is  a  queller  of  animosities,  and  the  hands 
that  struck  at  each  other  in  life  are  quiet  enough  in 
the  grave.  Brave  men  are  sleeping  on  that  little 
island.  It  should  be  regarded  as  consecrated  ground, 
and  a  tall  monument  should  be  erected  to  their 
memory.  It  should  be  made  to  speak  of  the  noble 
daring  of  the  men  who  perilled  and  lost  their  lives 
for  their  country.  There  are  no  rich  men  buried 
there.  No  titled  men.  They  were  the  sailors,  men 
who  stood  by  the  great  guns,  and  whose  breasts 
were  bared  to  the  foe.  They  were  what  the  world 
calls  common  men,  and  who,  had  they  survived 
the  battle,  would  have  lived  and  died  without  fame ; 
but  they  are  just  the  men  who  win  victories,  and 
bring  fame  to  commodores  and  generals,  and  upon 
whose  bravery  hangs  the  result  of  battles.  Over 
these  bones  of  these  brave  men  buried  here,  these 
poor  men,  these  sailors,  these  "  common  men," 
13 


298  COUNTRY  K  AMBLES. 

should  be  erected  what  will  save  them  from  dese 
cration,  and  tell  to  the  far-off  generations  how 
stoutly  they  fought,  and  how  bravely  they  fell  in 
the  cause  of  their  country. 


I  am  at  the  Au  SABLE  FORKS,  a  small  town  in 
extent  but  great  in  respect  to  the  business  done  in 
the  way  of  manufacturing  iron.  The  KOGERS' 
have  their  principal  forges  and  nail  factories  here. 
Almost  every  man  is  an  operative,  or  connected 
with  the  business  of  iron-making  in  some  way. 
You  meet  the  coal  man  with  his  face  blackened  by 
coal  dust,  and  you  meet  the  bloomer,  (not  those  of 
the  short  gowns  and  pantaletts),  but  those  Avho 
handle  the  blazing  iron,  covered  with  the  dust  and 
rust  of  the  forge.  You  meet  the  teamster  with  his 
short  pipe  and  California  hat,  and  you  admire  his 
independence  as  he  sits  upon  his  load  of  nails  or 
blooms,  or  bars  of  iron,  sending  the  smoke  from 
his  tobacco-pipe  wreathing  gracefully  upward,  and 
his  voice  has  a  cheerful  ring  as  he  cries  "  gee  whoa" 
to  his  sober  team.  You  meet  the  lumberman,  with 
his  bushy  beard  and  long  whiskers,  with  his  axe  on 
his  shoulder,  and  his  great  boots  on  the  outside  of 
his  pantaloons.  lie  is  just  from  the  woods  in  the 
far  interior,  where  he  has  been  making  war  upon 
the  pine  forest  trees,  hurling  them  to  the  earth, 
shaping  them  into  logs,  and  transporting  them  in 


ON   AN   ELEVATED  PLAIN.       299 

rafts  down  the  rivers  and  over  the  rapids  and  falls, 
to  the  mills.  His  labors  arc  over  until  the  fall 
snows  come  again.  He  will  work  in  the  harvest 
fields,  or  fish  or  hunt  till  then,  when  he  will  dive 
again  into  the  forest,  to  winter  in  his  cold  shantee, 
and  make  war  on  the  old  pine  trees.  Of  these 
lumbermen's  shantees  I  shall  tell  you  more  hereaf 
ter.  They  are  a  great  feature  in  the  Chateaugay, 
the  Saranac,  and  the  Eaquette  woods.  You  meet 
the  miner,  covered  with  the  debris  of  the  ore, 
among  which  he  delves  away  down  in  the  bowels 
of  the  earth ;  a  man  who  spends  twenty  out  of 
the  twenty -four  hours  in  darkness,  either  that  of 
the  night  or  that  of  the  mines  into  which  the  day 
light  never  looks.  Everybody  in  this  little  town 
is  busy. 

I  am  on  the  elevated  plain  between  the  Au  Sable 
and  the  Saranac  rivers.  A  broad  sweep  of  country, 
bare  of  timber,  yet  without  fields  or  houses.  Here 
is  a  tract  of  thousands  of  acres,  that  of  old  was 
covered  with  great  pine  trees  and  other  timber  of  a 
large  growth.  First  the  lumberman  attacked  and 
swept  away  the  pines — then  the  charcoal  men  swept 
away  the  other  large  trees,  and  last  of  all  the  fire 
went  rushing  and  roaring  over  this  plain  complet 
ing  the  desolation,  leaving  blackness  and  utter  life- 
lessness  behind  it.  No  living  thing,  whether  ani 
mal  or  vegetable,  remained  on  its  tract.  The  fire 
had  extinguished  or  driven  them  all  away.  An  old 
resident  told  me  of  the  "  great  burning,"  as  he 


300  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

termed  it,  of  this  plain.  u  It  was,"  said  he,  "  of  a 
hot  September  morning,  the  wind  blew  fresh  and 
strong  from  the  west.  Somehow  the  fire  got  out 
from  the  coal  pits,  on  the  western  border  of  the  plain, 
among  the  dry  tree-tops  and  dead  limbs,  and  brush, 
and  spread  out  sideways,  and  every  way  for  miles. 
By-and-bye  as  the  wind  rose  to  a  gale,  it  started  on 
its  career  across  the  plain.  It  was  a  glorious  as 
well  as  a  fearful  sight,  to  see  it  leaping  forward  and 
upward,  swirling  and  flashing  onward,  crackling 
and  roaring  like  thunder,  and  sending  the  smoke 
in  dark  and  dense  columns,  curling,  and  wreathing, 
and  rolling  towards  the  sky.  The  deer  and  other 
wild  beasts  fled  wildly  and  madly  before  it,  towards 
the  mountains,  or  across  the  cleared  fields  of  the 
valley.  Fortunately  there  were  no  people  inhabit 
ing  this  plain,  and  the  few  that  chanced  to  be  along 
the  road,  fled  to  the  settlement  below.  It  was  a 
grand  sight  that  burning,  a  thing  that  is  to  be  seen 
but  once  in  a  man's  lifetime." 

The  view  from  this  plain  is  a  magnificent  one,  if 
wo  regard  as  such  only  wild  and  desolate  grandeur, 
where  no  sign  of  civilization  crosses  the  vision.  On 
the  south  and  east,  lofty  peaks  loom  up  towards  the 
sky.  The  highest  and  boldest  of  them  all,  is  the 
baldfaced  mountain,  the  head  of  which  stands  glis 
tening  in  the  sunlight,  like  the  white  locks  of  some 
ancient  giant.  Away  off  beyond  this,  dim  and 
hazy  against  the  sky,  are  the  peaks  of  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  Mount  Marcy,  and  Mount  Seward,  the  lofti- 


A  FIRE   IN   THE  WOODS.          301 

cst  of  these,  while  on  every  side,  peaks  of  a  lower 
stature,  mountains  of  less  notable  height,  bound  the 
vision.  It  is  a  goodly  thing  to  pause  here  of  a  clear 
morning,  and  look  upon  the  things  around  you, 
standing  as  they  do  in  everlasting  silence  just 
where  God  placed  them,  and  no  land  mark  of  civil 
ization,  no  cottage  or  field,  to  tell  of  the  destruction 
to  natural  things,  which  marks  human  progress.  I 
love  these  old  mountain  ranges,  and  the  Lakes  that 
lay  sleeping  under  their  shadows,  and  the  streams 
that  wind  around  their  base. 


I  am  at  Franklin  Falls,  a  little  village  some  eigh 
teen  miles  from  the  Au  SABLE  Forks.  It  is  situ 
ated  on  the  Saranac  Kiver.  There  is  a  fall  in  this 
stream  here,  of  some  thirty  feet,  across  which  a  dam 
has  been  thrown,  and  the  water  has  been  made  to 
operate  one  of  the  largest  and  finest  saw-mills  in 
the  State,  a  mill  capable  of  turning  out  some  forty 
thousand  feet  of  lumber  per  day.  There  is  here  a 
large  tavern  house  for  so  small  a  place,  which  is 
well  kept,  a  larger  store,  and  a  score  or  more  small 
but  neat  cottages  clustered  around  them.  Two 
years  ago  the  present  summer,  this  little  town, 
with  the  mill  and  everything  in  the  shape  of  a 
building,  every  out-house,  shed,  and  fence,  was 
clean  wiped  out.  A  "fire  in  the  woods"  came 
sweeping  down  from  the  southwest,  driven  for- 


302  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 


by  the  gale,  hurled  onward  by  the  strong 
winds  in  resistless  fury.  In  an  hour  it  had  passed 
on,  leaving  in  its  track  only  smouldering  ruins 
and  the  blackness  of  desolation.  Every  vestige  of 
houses,  mills,  great  lumber  piles,  stables,  barns, 
everything  that  would  burn  had  been  given  to  de 
struction,  and  the  villagers  were  grouped  about 
congratulating  each  other  on  their  own  fortunate 
escape  from  a  terrible  fate.  But  enterprise  has 
conquered  the  desolation,  and  a  better  mill,  a  bet 
ter  store,  better  hotel  and  better  houses,  now  stand 
where  those  that  were  swept  away  by  the  fire  stood. 
These  fires  in  the  woods  arc  fearful  things  in  this 
section  of  the  State.  You  will  remember  that  this 
was,  of  old,  a  lumber  region,  or  rather  there  were 
thousands  and  hundreds  of  thousands  of  pine  trees 
scattered  all  over  the  woods.  These  have  been 
mostly  chopped  away,  and  their  dead  branches, 
dried  tops  and  foliage,  as  they  lay  where  they  fell, 
make  rich  food  for  the  flames.  The  foliage  of  the 
spruce  and  hemlock,  green  though  it  be,  is  com 
bustible,  and  when  a  fire  chances  to  get  loose,  and 
the  winds  are  on  the  wing,  the  flames  move  for 
ward  with  a  speed  and  power  which  nothing  can 
resist.  I  witnessed  one  of  these  fires  in  the  woods 
years  ago.  It  was  in  the  night-time,  and  I  was 
floating  on  the  waters  of  Tupper's  Lake.  It  came 
rushing  and  roaring  around  the  base  of  a  mountain, 
flashing  and  leaping  upward  and  sideways,  and 
every  way,  as  the  wind  impelled  it  onward,  or  in 


A  COUNTRY   TAVERN.  303 

gustful  eddies  laterally  among  the  combustible 
materials  in  its  reach.  For  a  few  minutes  it  would 
dash  forward  before  the  wind,  and  then  seem  to 
pause  as  if  for  breath,  the  flames  going  straight  up 
among  the  foliage  of  the  fir-trees,  like  gigantic 
torches.  Again  it  would  leap  forward  as  the  wind 
returned,  pushing  the  flames  in  long  streams  on 
ward  among  the  branches,  like  the  fiery  tongues  of 
great  serpents.  The  surface  of  the  lake  was  lighted 
up  like  the  day,  and  its  waters  was  the  barrier  at 
last,  against  the  progress  of  the  fire.  When  it 
reached  the  lake,  it  died  gradually  away,  and  when 
I  awoke  in  the  morning,  a  track  of  blackness  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  in  width,  trees  standing  up  in 
charred  and  leafless  desolation,  and  here  and  there 
smoking  logs  and  chunks  among  which  the  burn 
ing  lingered,  marked  the  track  of  this  "  fire  in  the 
woods." 


I  am  at  the  Saranac  Lake,  at  the  "  Saranac 
House,"  kept  for  the  accommodation  of  sportsmen 
in  the  summer,  and  lumbermen  in  the  winter. 
This  is  a  decent,  respectable  country  tavern,  standing 
literally  at  the  end  of  the  road,  and  kept  by  pleas 
ant  and  obliging  people.  It  is  on  a  beautiful  little 
bay,  of  some  hundred  acres,  at  the  north  end  of 
the  lake.  All  around  are  the  old  woods,  the  an 
cient  forest  standing  as  it  grew,  and  as  it  has  stood 
for  thousands  of  years. 


304  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

The  shores  of  this  bay  are  bold  and  rocky,  savo 
a  few  acres  at  the  head  of  it,  where  the  inlet  enters. 
Here  the  pond  lilies  spread  their  great  round  leaves 
over  the  surface,  and  the  brilliant  yellow  and  white 
blossoms  shine  out  like  stars  of  silver  or  gold,  on 
the  water.  We  arrived  here  a  little  after  sundown, 
while  the  glad  songs  of  the  day  were  being  hushed, 
and  the  night  voices  were  coming  abroad  on  the 
air.  IIigh  above  all  was  the  music  of  the  frogs, 
that  was  kept  up  all  the  long  night,  making  the 
woods  and  lakes  vocal  with  their  deep  sepulchral 
notes.  By  the  way,  I  have  seen  frogs  in  my  day, 
that  might  claim  to  be  sizeable  animals,  but  I  have 
seen  nowhere  else  this  kind  of  amphibia  at  all  com 
parable  in  dimensions  to  those  of  the  Lower  Sar- 
anac.  Great  plump  green  fellows,  that  would  weigh 
a  pound  or  two,  and  thousands  of  -them,  having 
voices  deeper  and  louder  than  that  of  the  bassoon 
or  the  brazen  serpent ;  and  when  they  strike  up  to 
gether,  the  whole  air  is  full  of  sound.  The  leaves 
of  the  pond  lilies  are  the  largest  I  have  ever  seen, 
some  of  them  being  full  a  foot  in  diameter.  On  one 
of  these  great  leaves,  some  patriarch  frog  will  seat 
himself  towards  night,  with  his  great  round  leaden 
eyes  protruding  from  his  head,  his  long  limbs 
gathered  under  him,  his  wide  mouth  stretched  in  a 
changeless  grimace,  and  as  the  twilight  gathers, 
he  will  inflate  his  ponderous  and  pouched  jaws  like 
a  bellows,  and  send  forth  sounds  that  would  aston 
ish  the  puny  froglings  of  the  marshes  of  the  Ilud- 


Music   OF   THE   FROGS.          305 

son.  There  is  a  peculiarity  about  the  melody  of 
the  frogs  here,  that  I  never  noticed  before.  For  a 
little  while  all  will  be  still,  save  the  shrill  note  of 
the  little  peeper  close  along  the  shore.  Then  from 
his  leaf,  away  out  on  the  lake,  some  deep-mouthed 
croaker  will  bellow  out,  while  from  every  direction, 
voice  after  voice  will  fall  in,  until  as  it  were  a  solid 
roar  fills  the  air.  Gradually  this  will  die  away 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  all  will  be  still,  and  this 
succession  of  sound  and  silence  goes  on  until  the 
sun  lights  up  the  day  again. 

Directly  opposite  the  Saranac  House,  and  across 
a  low  ridge,  through  the  forest  a  half  mile  or  more, 
is  a  little  lake  say  of  two  thousand  acres,  which  is 
a  perfect  gem.  Its  waters  are  clear  and  cold,  the 
banks,  save  a  little  patch  at  the  south,  bold  and 
bluff,  the  hills  rising  gradually  from  the  water's- 
edge,  little  bays  stealing  around  and  hiding  behind 
rocky  points,  laying  there  in  eternal  shadow  ;  as  a 
whole  it  is  one  of  those  beautiful  little  sheets  of 
water,  which  is  the  more  charming  because  the  eye 
can  take  in  at  once  all  its  delightful  scenery.  As 
we  rowed  around  it,  we  saw  on  a  natural  meadow 
of  some  three  or  four  acres,  two  noble  deer  feeding. 
We  paddled  silently  to  within  eight  or  ten  rods  of 
them,  when  they  seemed  to  scent  us.  They  raised 
their  heads  and  looked  all  around,  but  as  we  were 
perfectly  moveless  at  the  time,  they  did  not  seem 
to  notice  us ;  still,  they  were  alarmed  and  uneasy, 
evidently  satisfied  that  there  was  danger  some- 
13* 


306  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

where.  At  length  we  rose  up  in  the  boat,  and 
shouted,  and  it  would  have  done  you  good  to  see 
how  they  hoisted  their  white  flags,  and  with  what 
prodigious  bounds  they  went  snorting  and  scamper 
ing  away. 


I  am  at  Bound  Lake,  ten  miles  from  the  Saranac 
House,  on  my  way  to  the  Raquette  River,  Tupper's 
Lake,  and  the  wild  regions  that  lay  around  the 
sources  of  Bog  River.  We  left  Martin's  this  morn 
ing,  in  a  little  water-craft,  made  of  thin  cedar  boards, 
and  which  weighs  perhaps  a  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds.  This  little  boat,  light  as7  it  seems,  and 
tottlish  and  unsteady  as  it  may  be  when  unloaded, 
will  carry  four  persons,  and  a  reasonable  amount  of 
baggage,  with  perfect  safety,  over  these  beautiful 
waters.  These  rivers  and  lakes  are  the  highways, 
the  turnpikes,  the  railroads  of  these  high  and  wild 
regions,  and  these  little  boats  are  the  carriages,  the 
stage  coaches,  and  the  cars,  in  which  everybody 
must  travel.  You  start  from  the  head  of  the  Lower 
Saranac,  and  with  a  few  carrying  places,  over 
which  the  sturdy  boatman  trudges  with  his  boat  on 
his  back,  you  go  a  circle  of  a  hundred  miles  in 
diameter ;  you  traverse  the  Lower  Saranac,  Round 
Lake  and  the  Upper  Saranac ;  you  cross  the 
"  Indian  carrying  place"  of  a  mile,  along  a  pleasant 
and  beaten  path  through  the  woods.  Then  you 


AN   INVOLUNTARY   PLUNGE.     307 

launch  again,  on  a  series  of  ponds  and  down  Stony 
Brook,  to  the  Raquette  River,  and  then  up  or  down 
that  beautiful  water-course,  as  your  fancy  dictates, 
to  the  lakes  beyond ;  you  meet  every  little  while  a 
boatman,  returning  from  a  journey  to  the  woods, 
alone  or  with  passengers  who  have  been  on  a  sport 
ing  trip  among  the  lakes  and  forest  streams.  The 
rowers  rest  a  moment  on  their  oars,  kindly  greet 
ings  are  passed,  news  of  the  sports  and  from  the 
outside  world  are  exchanged,  and  each  passes  on 
his  way.  A  turn  in  the  river,  or  an  island  in  the 
lake,  hides  him  from  your  view,  and  you  are  alone 
again. 

While  we  were  packing  our  traps  in  our  boat  at 
Martin's  in  the  morning,  an  incident  occurred  which 
occasioned  some  amusement,  at  whose  expense  I 
will  not  now  say.  The  shore  where  the  boat  was 
landed  was  bold,  going  down  steep  into  the  water. 
The  bow  of  the  little  craft  lay  upon  the  bank,  and 
the  stern  on  the  water  some  four  feet  in  depth.  The 
party  were  all  in  the  house  save  one  who  stepped 
into  the  boat  for  the  purpose  of  placing  a  small  pail 
of  butter  under  the  stern  seat.  His  weight  tipped 
the  bow  clear  of  the  land,  and  the  boat  started  out 
on  the  water.  Turning  to  see  what  the  difficulty 
was,  and  forgetting  for  a  moment  the  care  neces 
sary  to  steady  the  craft  beneath  him,  he  lost  his 
balance,  the  boat  glided  out  from  under  him,  and 
he  went  down  like  a  great  frog,  head  foremost  into 
the  water,  and  came  up  in  five  feet  depth,  wet  as  a 


308  COUNTRY  EAMBLES. 

drowned  rat.  Fortunately  the  water  was  not  cold, 
and  what  was  better,  nobody  happened  to  see  him 
as  he  crawled  out  upon  the  shore,  every  hair  of  his 
head  and  every  thread  of  his  garments  dripping 
like  an  eavc-trough.  It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see 
him  there,  shaking  himself  like  a  Newfoundland 
water-dog,  or  standing  up  straight  and  stiff,  to  let 
the  water  run  off  from  his  saturated  garments. 
When  the  discovery  of  the  facts  was  made,  a  hearty 
laugh  was  indulged  in  at  his  expense,  and  countless 
were  the  jokes  to  which  he  was  subjected.  Do  you 
ask  who  it  was  that  took  this  involuntary  plunge  into 
the  Saranac  ?  Sir,  there  are  questions  which  people, 
though  they  possess  all  the  knowledge  necessary  to 
the  solution  of  them,  do  not  like  to  answer,  and  this 
is  one  of  them.  All  I  choose  to  say  is,  he  was  a  man 
of  about  five  feet  nine  in  height,  somewhat  rotund  in 
shape,  of  fourteen  stone  and  a  little  over  in  weight, 
and  somewhat  given  to  gray  ness  about  the  head. 
Perhaps  you  may  know  him.  If  you  do,  you  will 
confer  a  special  favor  on  me  by  saying  nothing 
about  the  matter. 


I  am  at  Tupper's  Lake,  a  sheet  of  water  which 
I  assert  has  no  peer  in  beauty  in  this  country.  It 
is  some  ten  miles  in  length,  and  varying  from  one 
to  three  miles  in  width.  Its  waters  are  pure  and 
cold,  though  less  transparent  than  some  of  the  lakes 


EICH   MINES  OF   IRON.          309 

in  this  region.  This  is  owing,  probably,  to  the  iron 
ore,  which  doubtless  underlays  and  which  we  know 
abounds  around  it.  At  the  foot  of  the  lake,  a  few 
rods  from  the  bank,  the  ore  crops  out  on  the  sur 
face,  and  you  can  easily  trace  it  from  an  eighth  to 
a  quarter  of  a  rnile.  The  ore  appears  to  be  very 
rich,  and  from  the  indications  on  the  surface,  exten 
sive.  I  have  no  doubt  that  long  years  hence,  may 
be  centuries,  this  and  other  rich  mines  of  iron, 
known  to  exist  in  this  now  wild  locality,  will  give 
employment  to  thousands  of  men,  and  send  out 
their  portion  of  metal  to  meet  the  immense  and 
always  growing  demand  for  iron,  required  by  the 
operations  of  civilization.  The  great  features  of 
Tupper's  Lake,  those  which  give  it  its  principal 
charm,  are  its  islands  and  bays.  These  are  the 
most  charming  imaginable,  always  remembering 
that  we  leave  out  of  view  civilization,  regarding 
only  wildness,  solitude,  and  primitive  grandeur. 
These  bays  stealing  around  behind  jutting  and 
craggy  promontories,  winding  away  in  the  deep 
shadow  of  forest  and  mountain,  they  lay  there  un- 
rippled  almost  by  a  breeze,  always.  Floating  into 
one  of  these,  you  are  hid  from  a  view  of  the  lake ; 
above  you  is  only  the  sky,  while  the  tall  trees,  and 
hills  that  surround  them,  limit  the  vision,  as  though 
you  were  in  the  bottom  of  a  great  bowl,  and  could 
look  only  upward.  The  islands  are  of  various  size 
and  appearance.  Here  a  bare  rock,  an  immense 
boulder,  lifts  its  brown  and  moss-covered  head, 


310  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

right  up  from  the  deep  water,  standing  all  solitary 
and  alone,  with  no  tree,  shrub,  grass  or  vegetable 
thing  growing  upon  it.  There  one,  maybe,  of  a 
few  rods  only  in  circumference,  covered  with  fir 
trees  and  pines,  standing  clothed  in  everlasting 
green,  with  no  rocks  visible  to  the  eye.  Then  again, 
there  are  others  containing  maybe  hundreds  of 
acres,  covered  with  timber,  among  which  great 
boulders,  larger  than  haystacks,  stand,  with  here 
and  there  precipices  rising  straight  up,  fifty  or  sixty 
feet,  gray  and  gloomy,  while  occasionally  a  bare 
rocky  peak  rises  above  even  the  tree-tops.  As  you 
float  by  one  of  these  islands,  and  see  the  great 
boulders,  the  walls,  and  rocky  peaks,  struggling  as 
it  were  for  mastery  with  the  forest  growth  above 
and  around  them,  you  can  hardly  divest  yourself  of 
the  idea  that  you  are  looking  upon  some  gigantic  . 
ruins  of  the  olden  times.  The  crumbling  walls,  the 
decaying  and  deserted  battlements  of  ancient  castles, 
and  strongholds  built  by  people  of  a  rude  and 
vanished  age,  when  physical  force,  and  strong  arms, 
conquest  and  plunder,  were  the  great  landmarks  of 
the  times.  You  can  almost  mark  the  spot  where 
the  lofty  towers  stood,  where  the  ponderous  gates 
swung  upon  massive  hinges;  where  were  draw 
bridge  and  moat,  and  you  think  how  impregnable 
the  sturdy  old  Baronet  was  in  his  stronghold 
against  everything  but  Time.  And  then  you 
think  how  that  same  Time  demolishes  the  strongest 
and  proudest  works  of  man,  how  it  topples  down 


THE   Two   SETTLERS.  311 

castle  and  hold,  how  it  sweeps  away  at  last,  by  its 
strong,  slow,  but  sure  process,  the  most  massive 
works  of  human  energy. 

There  are  two  settlers  on  the  shores  of  this  lake ; 
the  one  at  the  outlet,  and  the  other  near  the  head  of 
the  lake.  The  first,  a  fisherman  and  hunter,  who 
has  some  two  or  three  acres  cleared,  raising  simply 
vegetables  for  his  family,  taking  the  world  easy,  as 
most  frontier  men  do,  seldom  sweating  from  hard 
labor,  or  tired  by  real  work.  The  other  is  a  lum 
berman,  energetic  and  industrious,  has  small  taste 
for  hunting  or  fishing,  or  any  of  the  wild  sports  of 
the  forest  or  lake.  lie  has  some  forty  acres  cleared, 
a  good  log-house  for  his  family,  and  another  of 
larger  dimensions,  fitted  up  with  tiers  of  berths  all 
around,  like  the  cabins  of  the  large  steamboats,  but 
not  by  any  means  with  the  same  degree  of  elegance. 
Here,  during  the  Winter  months,  and  until  late  in 
the  Spring,  an  army  of  lumbermen  congregate,  oc 
cupying  this  as  their  sleeping  apartment,  and  board 
ing  with  the  hardy  settler  in  this  wilderness.  This 
family  is  eight  miles  from  a  neighbor,  some  fifty 
miles  from  a  doctor,  the  same  distance  from  a  church 
or  school-house,  and  you  will  readily  see  that  what 
ever  pleasure  there  may  be  in  isolation,  they  enjoy 
it  to  the  full.  Speaking  of  school-houses  reminds 
me  of  a  matter  that  I  omitted  to  mention  in  a  former 
letter,  a  thing  that  I  "  booked  for  discussion"  on  my 
way,  but  forgot  to  mention  it  in  its  proper  place. 

Between  the  Au  SABLE  FORKS  and  FRANKLIN 


312  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

FALLS,  as  I  said  to  you,  is  a  high  region  of  country, 
cold  and  uninviting  for  agricultural  purposes,  deso 
late  by  nature  as  a  place  of  residence,  but  covered 
with  a  large  growth  of  timber.  This  timber  is  a 
mine  of  wealth  to  the  manufacturers  of  iron,  fur 
nishing  them  with  charcoal  for  their  furnaces  and 
forges.  Occasionally  you  come  to  a  city,  almost,  of 
coal-pits.  Hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  them  clus 
tered  around.  Some  smoking  in  the  slow  progress 
of  combustion,  some  just  covered,  and  some  just 
being  piled  ready  for  covering,  and  some  already 
burned,  from  which  sooty,  and  charred  men,  I  had 
almost  said,  are  raking  away  the  coals,  and  load 
ing  them  for  the  forges.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  re 
quires  people,  to  chop  the  wood,  build  and  burn  the 
pits,  and  carry  away  the  coals ;  and  they  are  to  be 
found  in  plenty,  in  log-houses  along  the  road.  As 
a  corollary  from  these  facts,  it  follows  that  children 
will  be  born  to  them.  And  you  will  see  the  sturdy, 
knotty,  and  hardy-looking  little  wilderness-born 
chaps,  swarming  in  what  you  and  I  might  consider 
inverse  ratio,  so  far  as  numbers  are  concerned,  to 
any  apparent  necessity  for  their  presence,  or  provis 
ion  for  their  support.  Now,  in  this  country,  as  a 
general  thing,  wherever  you  find  a  dozen  children, 
you  will  find  a  school-mistress  and  a  school-house. 
These  three  institutions  seem  to  be  inseparable, 
growing  along  up  together,  and  it  is  a  glorious 
thing  that  it  should  be  so.  It  develops  the  native 
energy  of  the  American  character,  and  brings  forth 


11  SEMINARY   OF   LEARNING."    313 

its  inward  might.  Well,  some  three  or  four  miles 
south  of  FRANKLIN  FALLS,  in  the  "  coal  formation," 
as  geologists  would  say,  stood  a  log-house.  There 
were  some  fifteen  or  twenty  barefooted,  healthy -look 
ing  boys  and  girls,  playing  and  scampering,  and 
shouting  around  the  door,  and  I  wondered  at  the 
evidences  of  a  prolific  reproductiveness,  which  seem 
ed  to  characterize  whoever  inhabited  it.  "While 
we  were  some  distance  from  it,  however,  I  heard 
a  loud  rapping  on  the  window-sash,  and  the  little 
ones  disappeared  with  a  rush  into  the  house. 
That  sound  was  too  full  of  old  memories,  recollec 
tions  of  long  ago,  not  to  explain  the  problem  that 
had  puzzled  me.  That  log-house  standing  there 
all  alone  in  that  little  clearing,  was  a  school-house, 
a  "  seminary  of  learning,"  a  small  branch  of  a  great 
system,  that  has  thrown  and  is  throwing  this  coun 
try  forward,  with  a  rush  of  progress  such  as  finds 
no  parallel  in  the  world's  history.  As  we  passed  it, 
the  door  stood  open,  and  I  took  an  observation  of 
the  inmates.  There  was  the  plain  but  neatly  dress 
ed  mistress,  with  her  clean  calico  dress  and  black 
apron,  her  white  neckerchief  over  her  shoulders, 
and  crossed  gracefully  over  her  bosom ;  her  hair 
combed  modestly  and  smoothly  from  her  forehead, 
and  fastened  in  a  knot  on  the  back  of  her  head, 
standing  with  book  in  hand,  and  a  class  of  little 
girls  before  her,  about  hearing  them  read.  One 
chubby  little  fellow,  of  say  eight  or  nine  years  of 
age,  was  standing  by  himself  in  the  middle  of  the 


•314  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

floor,  with  a  paper  cap  on  his  head,  his  pantaloons 
rolled  half-way  to  his  knees,  his  legs  and  feet  bare, 
and  the  fore  finger  of  his  right  hand  in  his  mouth, 
and  his  face  down  in  a  ludicrous-sheepish,  and 
shame-faced  fashion.  There  was  no  mistaking  his 
position.  He  was  undergoing  punishment  for  some 
sin  against  the  laws  of  the  school,  demonstrating 
the  great  truth  that  reaches  all  the  way  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave,  that  the  way  of  the  transgressor 
is  hard.  There  was  something  so  old-fashioned,  so 
familiar  to  me  in  all  this,  that  I  was  tempted  to 
laugh  and  cry  at  the  same  time,  as  the  present  and 
past  stood  out  so  palpably  before  me. 

Do  not  think  me  capable  of  ridiculing  these  prim 
itive  people,  or  primitive  schools.  They  are  too 
important,  too  essential  to  the  prosperity  and  prog 
ress  of  this  country,  in  my  estimation,  for  that.  I 
remember  with  feelings  of  profound  veneration  the 
log  school-house  of  my  own  boyhood  days.  It  was 
the  foundation  of  the  small  progress  I  have  made  in 
life.  The  teachings  begun  in  these  log  school-houses 
have  given  direction  to,  and  roused  the  latent  ener 
gies  of  many  a  great  and  good  man  of  our  country, 
whose  names  have  passed  into  the  history  of  these 
States,  who  will  live  in  the  world's  memory  when 
thousands  of  graduates  of  the  Colleges  and  Uni 
versities  will  have  perished.  Blessings  on  that 
log  school-house  in  the  Saranac  Woods,  on  its  school 
mistress,  and  the  little  children,  whose  "young 
ideas"  she  was  teaching  "  how  to  shoot." 


DEEP   FISHING.  315 

We  leave  Tapper's  Lake  by  a  direct  road  to 
go  up  the  Bog  Kiver,  to  the  ponds  and  lakes  to 
wards  its  source.  There  are  beautiful  trout  in  this 
lake,  and  abundance  of  them.  We  did  not  oare  to 
take  them,  for  we  could  not  get  them  out  to  the  set 
tlements,  and  we  had  more  of  the  brook  and  river 
trout  than  we  knew  what  to  do  with.  We  saw 
some  taken  by  the  settler  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
lake,  weighing  from  eight  to  twelve  pounds.  These 
he  salts  for  winter  use,  though  he  can  take  them  at 
all  times.  The  trolling  season  is  nearly  over,  and 
but  few  can  now  be  taken  in  that  way.  They 
are  caught  now  by  what  is  called  deep  fishing. 
Buoys  are  made  in  water  from  fifty  to  one  hundred 
feet  in  depth,  where  the  fish  are  baited.  Long 
strips  of  bark  are  peeled  and  tied  together,  to  make 
a  sort  of  cable,  to  one  end  of  which  a  stone  is  fast 
ened  as  an  anchor,  and  at  the  other  a  piece  of  light 
wood  is  made  fast,  and  left  to  float  on  the  water. 
About  this,  chub,  shiners,  and  suckers,  cut  into 
small  pieces,  are  thrown  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then 
the  fisherman  goes  out  in  his  boat,  fastens  to  his 
buoy,  drops  his  long  line  and  great  hook,  baited 
with  a  minnow,  and  naturally  draws  in  the  six, 
eight,  and  ten  pounders,  that  have  been  fattening  on 
the  fish  he  has  been  furnishing  them. 


I  am  at  the  upper  falls  of  Bog  Eiver.    This  large 
stream,  but  small  river,  forms  the  inlet  to  Tapper's 


316  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

Lake,  and  comes  down  from  a  plateau  some  sixty 
feet  above  it,  in  three  cascades  over  shelving  rocks, 
of  about  twenty  feet  each,  and  shoots  off  in  a  powerful 
current  far  out  into  the  lake.  Across  this  current, 
where  it  enters  the  lake,  and  in  the  eddies  formed 
by  it,  are  great  places  to  throw  for  the  river  trout. 
They  may  be  caught  in  great  quantities  and  of  a 
large  size,  and  their  play  is  beautiful.  They  are, 
however,  at  this  time,  caught  both  larger,  and  if 
possible  faster,  by  trolling,  with  a  minnow  for  bait, 
back  and  forth,  a  few  rods  from  the  shore,  across 
the  current.  Beautiful  yellow  or  orange-bellied  fel 
lows,  of  from  one  to  three  pounds  in  weight,  and 
their  activity  and  strength  is  exceedingly  exciting 
to  those  who  have  a  taste  for  that  method  of  taking 
them.  For  myself,  I  love  the  fly  or  grasshopper, 
or  even  the  vulgar  angle- worm,  best ;  and  when  I 
can  use  them,  neither  deep  fishing  for  ten-pounders, 
nor  trolling,  will  tempt  me  to  forsake  them. 

Our  boatmen  carried  our  boat  and  what  a  Hoosier 
would  call  our  plunder,  from  the  lake,  a  few  rods 
up  a  steep  ascent,  and  launched  it  on  the  river,  above 
the  falls.  For  some  three  or  four  miles  above,  the 
river  flows  in  a  deep  and  tortuous  channel,  with  but 
a  light  current.  We  then  entered  a  region  of  boul 
ders,  lying  in  mid-channel,  around  which  the  cur 
rents  wound,  and  went  twisting  and  eddying  away. 
Here  I  threw  my  fly,  by  way  of  experiment,  and 
found  the  trout  abundant.  Some  half  a  mile  further 
on,  we  came  to  a  rapid,  half  a  mile  in  extent,  around 


THE   EAPIDS.  317 

which  the  boat  had  to  be  carried.  And  I  may  say 
here,  that  during  the  day  we  encountered  nine 
rapids,  of  greater  or  less  extent,  around  which 
our  little  vessel  had  to  be  transported.  These 
carrying  places  where,  however,  short,  and  as  we 
had  two  boatmen,  occasioned  but  little  trouble  or 
delay,  and  afforded  rather  a  relief  from  the  fixed 
posture  which  we  had  to  assume  in  the  boat. 
There  has  been  a  vast  amount  of  lumbering  done 
on  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  stream  the  last 
winter.  Twenty  thousand  logs  have  floated  down 
it,  to  the  lake  below,  during  the  Spring  freshets, 
and  there  are  a  vast  many  lying  scattered  along 
the  banks,  which  must  await  the  Spring  freshets  of 
next  year.  On  each  of  the  falls  (and  there  are  seven 
of  them)  dams  have  been  built,  to  hold  back  the 
water,  until  all  is  ready,  when  the  flood-gates  are 
opened,  and  the  mighty  rush  of  waters  carries  every 
thing  before  it.  We  could  see  the  mark  of  the  flood, 
six  or  eight  feet  above  the  present  level,  on  the  trees 
along  the  bank,  and  the  water  is  yet  greatly  above 
low-water  mark.  I  can  imagine  with  what  tremen 
dous  force  the  river  goes  thundering  through  the  nar 
row  gorges,  and  down  the  rocks  among  the  great 
boulders  fixed  as  mountains  in  the  channel ;  and  the 
wonder  is,  how  even  the  great  logs  can  withstand 
its  mighty  power,  and  not  be  splintered  into  shreds, 
among  the  gigantic  obstructions  against  which  they 
are  hurled.  The  shanties  of  the  lumbermen  are 
seen  every  few  miles  along  the  banks,  and  they  con- 


318  COUNTRY  KAMBLES. 

stitutc  a  great  feature  of  this  region.  They  are  built 
of  long  logs,  covered  with,  shingles  split  from  the 
pines  and  spruce.  Tiers  of  berths  are  built  one 
above  another,  on  each  side,  and  across  the  ends, 
save  where  you  enter  the  door.  In  the  centre  is  a 
rude  fire-place  of  stone,  but  without  a  chimney, 
while  a  hole  in  the  roof  is  left  for  the  escape  of  the 
smoke.  In  some  of  them  are  immense  cooking 
stoves,  instead  of  fireplaces. 

The  bed  of  the  hardy  lumbermen  was  of  hemlock, 
or  spruce  boughs,  or  of  hay  or  straw,  and  here  they 
managed  to  live  comfortably,  according  to  their 
notions,  through  the  cold  winters,  though  the  chill 
winds  whistled  through  a  hundrqd  openings,  and  the 
snow  drifted  in  through  the  crevices.  These  shan 
ties  are  deserted  now,  and  they  stand  there  tenant- 
less,  with  most  of  the  tools  remaining  which  were 
used  by  the  lumbermen  during  the  winter.  These 
tools  are  entirely  safe  from  plunderers,  for  there  is 
a  sort  of  faith  among  woodmen,  that  is  a  surer  pro 
tection  than  bolts  and  bars.  We  entered  one  of 
these  shantees,  the  door  of  which  was  on  the  latch. 
There,  in  the  centre,  stood  a  great  stove,  with  the 
utensils  for  cooking  upon  and  around  it.  In  one 
corner  was  piled  up  axes,  crowbars,  log  chains,  iron 
dogs.  On  a  shelf  was  a  cask  of  vinegar,  and  an 
other  that  smelled  mightily  like  whiskey,  a  great  pile 
of  codfish,  and  bread  hard  and  dry  enough  to  an 
swer  for  cannon  balls,  pewter  dishes,  knives  and 
forks,  selected  for  strength  rather  than  elegance, 


AN   ECCENTRIC   HABIT.          319 

and  on  a  little  shelf  in  the  corner,  a  pack  of  cards, 
so  soiled  and  greasy,  that  one  could  safely  bet  they 
had  been  through  ten  thousand  games  of  "Old 
Sledge."  The  whiskey  and  the  cards  brought  out 
a  strong  characteristic  of  the  lumbermen  of  these 
woods  in  bold  relief,  while  the  hundred  black  stubs 
of  pipes,  and  the  codfish,  added  a  sort  of  comment 
ary  to  the  card  and  whiskey  text.  And  yet,  prob 
ably  there  was  neither  a  confirmed  drunkard  nor 
a  gambler  among  them  all.  They  drank  whiskey 
upon  principle,  and  played  cards,  and  smoked,  and 
eat  codfish  by  way  of  giving  relish  to  the  "  rye."  I 
remember  an  eccentric  old  gentleman,  who  was  a 
member  of  the  Legislature  for  two  or  three  sessions 
some  years  ago,  from  one  of  the  down-river  counties. 
He  was  a  jolly,  pleasant,  companionable,  and  withal, 
an  intelligent  man — but  he  had  three  weaknesses  in 
rather  a  remarkable  degree.  These  weaknesses 
were  a  game  of  whist,  a  gin  sling,  and  a  cigar.  He 
could  indulge  in  his  favorite  game  from  eve  till 
dawn,  provided  the  gin  was  good,  and  the  cigars  all 
right.  lie  would  play,  and  drink,  and  smoke  with 
a  zest  that  defied  weariness  or  desire  for  sleep,  and 
yet  he  was  never  intoxicated,  and  never  staked  a 
cent  on  the  cards.  He  claimed  to  be  a  temperate 
man,  and  was  principled  against  drunkenness  and 
gambling.  He  would,  however,  stow  away  more  gin, 
and  smoke  more  cigars  of  a  night,  and  go  to  bed 
soberer,  than  any  two  men  I  ever  happened  to  know. 
He  used  to  say  he  loved  to  drink  because  it  made 


320  COUNTRY   EAMBLES. 

him  relish  a  cigar  so,  and  he  loved  to  smoke  because 
it  made  him  so  dry.  It  is,  doubtless,  so  with  the 
lumbermen  of  this  region.  They  like  to  drink,  be 
cause  it  makes  them  relish  their  pipes,  and  they  like 
to  smoke,  because  it  makes  them  so  dry. 

We  have  mastered  all  the  rapids  and  falls,  and 
are  now  in  smooth  water,  and  shall  be  until  we 
reach  a  series  of  nameless  ponds,  lying  between  us 
and  Mud  Lake.  We  have  seen  several  deer  on  the 
route  thus  far,  since  we  left  Tupper's  Lake,  but 
there  are  no  grasses  or  food  for  them  along  the 
river,  and  our  meeting  with  them  has  been  entirely 
accidental.  It  is  said  we  are  now  entering  upon  a 
portion  of  the  river  that  aifords  abundance  of  pas 
ture  for  them,  and  that  we  shall  have  a  sight  at  a 
great  many  on  our  passage  up. 


I  am  on  the  banks  of  one  of  the  small  lakes, 
the  outlet  of  which,  goes  to  help  to  make  up  Bog 
Eiver.  These  ponds  or  little  lakes  are  without 
names,  so  far  as  I  can  learn.  They  have  some,  but 
not  all  of  the  beauties  of  the  waters  further  north. 
They  are  in  part  bordered  by  marshes,  and  they 
lack  the  bold  and  striking  outline  of  rocky  bluff  and 
hillside,  nor  have  they  the  charming  bays  that  steal 
around,  as  it  were,  from  the  broad  lake,  to  sleep 
in  the  shadow  of  the  forest  trees.  We  are  very 
near  the  "top  of  the  house"  here,  and  though  we 


THE  ASTONISHED   BUCK.        321 

can  see  in  the  distance  mountain  peaks  going  up 
towards  the  sky,  yet  there  are  no  ranges,  no  high 
lands,  as  distinguished  from  these  peaks  in  sight. 
We  must  now  be  some  four  or  five  hundred  feet 
above  Tupper's  Lake,  and  a  single  rise  of  some  fifty 
feet  in  all,  around  roaring  rapids,  will  bring  us  to 
the  upper  level,  beyond  which  there  is  in  this  direc 
tion  no  higher  plain,  no  more  elevated  river  or 
lake. 

After  leaving  the  upper  falls,  the  river  flowed 
with  a  sluggish  current  through  broad  marshes, 
where  the  wild  grasses  skirted  the  shore,  and  the 
broad  leaves  of  the  pond  lilies  covered  the  water. 
"We  saw  abundance  of  deer  feeding  upon  these 
aquatic  pastures.  I  was  exceedingly  amused  by 
one  of  these  animals,  a  noble  buck.  In  many 
places  the  channel  is  narrow,  and  exceedingly 
crooked,  turning  suddenly  around  wooded  points. 
Soon  after  leaving  the  upper  falls,  the  oars  were 
unshipped,  and  the  paddles  only  used,  that  when 
we  came  upon  these  deer  pastures,  we  might  not 
frighten  the  animals*  by  the  noise  of  rowing.  As 
we  rounded  noiselessly  one  of  these  short  elbows, 
we  came  suddenly  upon  a  large  deer,  that  was  feed 
ing  only  some  four  or  five  rods  from  us.  He  was 
standing  with  his  nose  and  a  part  of  his  head,  in 
cluding  his  eyes,  for  the  moment  under  water, 
apparently  trying  to  loosen  the  stem  of  a  pond  lily 
from  the  bottom,  the  water  being  a  foot  or  more  in 
depth.  These  stems  are  of  the  same  pithy  and 
U 


322  COUNTRY   KAMBLES. 

fibrous   character  as  a  cabbage  stalk,  rough  and 
knotty  like  it,  and  when  loosened  at  the  roots,  will 
float  on  the  water.     The  deer  are  fond  of  these 
lily  stalks,  and  you  will  see  fragments  of  half-eaten 
stems  floating  in  the  ponds  and  eddies  where  they 
grow.     We  were  perfectly  silent  and  motionless,  as 
we  saw  him  feeding  so  near  us ;  not  a  hand  was 
moved.      He  raised  his  head  carelessly  from  the 
water,  and  as  his  eye  fell  upon  us,  he  straightened 
himself  up,  then  throwing  forward  his  ears,  looked 
in  utter  astonishment  upon  us,  as  if  saying  to  him 
self,  "  What,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  wonderful, 
is  that  ?"     Presently  he  hoisted  his  tail,  snorted  in 
amazement,  and   trotted   a  few  rods   towards   the 
shore,  looking  with  arched  neck  at  us   over  his 
shoulder.     Still,  as  we  did  not  move,  his  curiosity 
seemed  to  overcome  his  terror,  and  he  stopped,  and 
turning  towards  us,  stood  gazing  with  a  peculiar 
intensity  of  look  at  us.     He  would  stamp  with  his 
foot,  and  whistle,  as  if  to  arouse  us  from  our  fixed 
and  motionless  attitude,  if  we  were  living  things. 
Presently  we  swung  our  hats  'and  shouted,  and  he 
was  off  like  the  wind.     The  discharge  of  my  rifle, 
and  the  whistling  of  the  ball  near  him,  added  vigor 
to  his  terror,  and  new  wings  to  his  flight,  and  he 
plunged  madly  into  the  thick  brush  along  the  mar 
gin  of  the  river,  and  went  crashing  and  snorting  up 
the  mountain. 


THE   SLUMBERS   OF  NIGHT.      323 

I  am  now  on  the  banks  of  a  small  lake,  the  prin 
cipal  source  of  the  west  branch  of  Bog  Eiver.  We 
are  shanteeing  here  in  the  old  woods,  in  a  house 
made  of  bark  peeled  from  the  trees  around  us,  com 
posed  of  a  single  room,  with  the  whole  gable  end 
for  a  door,  and  just  large  enough  to  accommodate 
two  men  if  disposed  of  horizontally,  and  laid  along 
lengthwise  on  a  bed  of  boughs  rolled  up  like  sacks 
of  potatoes  in  their  blankets.  Before  it  are  blazing 
logs,  for  the  nights  are  cool,  and  were  it  not  so,  the 
smoke  and  the  flame  are  needed  to  keep  off  the 
mosquitoes,  that  in  these  woods  and  around  these 
lakes  have  each  a  proboscis  that  an  elephant  might 
envy,  and  they  have  a  mighty  insinuating  way 
with  them  too.  Our  boatmen  lay  wrapped  in  their 
blankets  in  the  open  air,  with  their  feet  to  fire 
and  their  heads  resting  on  blocks  of  wood  for  a 
pillow,  and  it  would  do  you  good  to  see  how 
soundly  they  sleep  and  to  hear  them  snore.  From 
out  in  the  forest  comes  the  solemn  hooting  of  the 
owl,  and  the  wild  voice  of  some  solitary  night  bird 
floats  upon  the  ear,  while  at  long  intervals  the  clar 
ion  voice  of  the  loon  comes  clear  and  musical  from 
the  lake.  The  hoarse  and  guttural  bass  of  the 
frogs  comes  roaring  deep,  sonorous  and  solemn, 
from  among  the  pond  lilies  that  grow  along  the 
shore,  and  yet  with  all  these  noises  sounding  on  the 
ear,  you  feel  an  impression  of  silence,  and  you  are 
soothed  into  a  desire  for  repose.  With  the  air  full 
of  noises,  you  sink  away  into  slumber,  and  in  the 


324  COUNTRY    RAMBLES. 

morning  awake  fully  refreshed,  the  weariness  of 
the  previous  day  all  gone,  and  you  feel  a  degree  of 
buoyancy  of  spirit  and  limb,  which  no  night's  rest 
in  the  city  can  give  you. 

The  pure  bracing  air  of  this  high  region  has  an 
effect  upon  the  system  which  it  is  impossible  to 
describe.  Such  at  least  is  its  effect  upon  me.  You 
feel  as  you  inhale  it  in  the  morning,  an  exhilaration, 
a  hilarity  that  tempts  you  to  shout  aloud,  hurrah, 
sing,  and  be  jolly  as  everything  around  you  seems 
to  be.  I  have  seen  people  while  under  the  influ 
ence  of  Champagne,  cut  strange  capers,  and  perform 
most  ridiculous  antics,  and  the  mountain  air  of 
these  wild  regions  so  pure,  so  bracing,  so  full  of 
freshness,  so  deliciously  sweet,  that  though  rigid  in 
your  observance  of  the  temperance  creed,  you  be 
come  almost  drunken  with  excitement,  as  if  you 
had  been  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  Bacchus. 

We  saw  a  great  many  deer  yesterday,  caught  all 
the  trout  we  wanted,  and  we  can  see  the  deer  this 
morning  feeding  on  the  shore  over  and  across  the 
lake.  We  intended  to  stay  a  week  in  this  region, 
laying  around  in  a  loose  promiscuous  way,  fishing 
as  we  needed  the  trout,  and  knocking  over  a  deer 
when  we  needed  venison,  telling  stories,  and  hear 
ing  them  told,  of  life  in  the  woods,  indulging  in 
fact  or  fiction,  in  fact,  being  jolly  in  a  natural  way 
outside  of  civilization,  away  from  books  and  news 
papers,  away  from  highways  and  the  thoroughfares 
of  life,  away  from  the  thunders  of  railroads  and 


A   FELLOW   SPORTSMAN.         325 

the  roar  of  the  steam  whistle,  outside  of  paved 
streets,  outside  of  green  fields,  and  outside  of  the 
fences,  untrammeled  by  the  conventional  proprieties 
of  life,  to  be  wild  men  in  fact  away  off  in  the  old 
woods,  renouncing  for  a  time  the  guardianship  of 
the  laws,  the  companionship  of  the  world,  alone 
with  nature  and  the  wild  things  with  which  God 
has  peopled  the  forests,  the  lakes  and  streams.  I 
have  thus  far  written  only  in  the  singular  number, 
and  have  in  this,  as  it  strikes  me  now  for  the  first 
time,  done  wrong.  There  is  with  me  an  intelligent 
gentleman,  who  is  a  keen  sportsman,  one  who  rel 
ishes  a  tramp  in  the  woods,  who  loves  to  throw  the 
fly,  and  be  among  the  deer,  to  hear  the  forest 
sounds,  and  look  upon  the  wild  scenery  of  nature, 
as  much  as  I  do  myself;  and  I  have  been  indebted 
to  him,  all  the  way,  for  pleasant  conversation  and 
"interesting  debate"  on  many  subjects  besides 
woodcraft.  His  skill  in  all  that  pertains  to  the 
sports  of  the  wilderness,  is  quite  equal  to  my 
own.  I  may  as  well  say  here,  that  I  do  not  excel 
in  any  branch  of  woodcraft.  I  can  throw  the 
fly  with  only  a  medium  skill,  and  am  not  re 
markably  successful  with  a  baited  hook.  I 
am  no  great  shot  with  the  rifle.  What  I 
love  most  is  to  float  along  the  romantic  shores  of 
these  secluded  lakes,  to  glide  into  their  shadowy 
bays,  be  rowed  down  or  up  the  secluded  little 
rivers  that  have  flowed  here  in  everlasting  solitude 
through  the  old  forests,  and  around  the  base  of 


326  COUNTRY   K  AMBLES. 

these  mountains.  I  love  to  commune  with  the 
primeval  things  all  around  me,  to  go  back  in  imag 
ination,  to  the  time  when  this  vast  Continent  was 
one  great  wilderness,  hid  away  here  across  oceans 
by  the  Creator,  given  to  the  possession  of  wild  men 
and  wild  things,  till  in  his  own  good  time  he  should 
open  it  up  to  the  knowledge  of  the  world,  making 
it  the  field  of  a  regenerated  and  renewed  civiliza 
tion  ;  where  the  great  principles  of  human  freedom 
could  be  planted  in  a  virgin  soil,  and  man's  capa 
bility  for  progress  be  fully  developed.  This  must 
have  been  a  glorious  hunting  ground  for  the  Indian, 
and  admirable  residences,  too,  for  his  brother  the 
beaver.  There  was  no  need  of  these  latter  building 
dams  to  accommodate  themselves  with  still  water. 
The  lakes  and  ponds  spread  all  over  the  country, 
were  prepared  for  them;  and  when  they  and  the 
wild  men  of  the  woods  lived  in  amity,  before  the 
greed  of  the  white  man  had  set  a  value  upon  their 
fur,  and  tempted  the  cupidity  of  the  Indian  to  con 
trive  their  slaughter,  the  beaver  must  have  had  a 
good  time  of  it  here  among  these  waters.  And 
yet  these  industrious  and  provident  animals  were 
not  entirely  satisfied  with  the  natural  ponds  and 
lakes  alone.  There  are  occasional  localities  pointed 
out  along  the  streams  where  there  are  unmistakable 
evidences  still  existing  that  they  had  in  the  olden 
times  their  dams.  There  are,  too,  water-ways, 
narrow  channels  across  low  marshy  grounds,  from 
one  pond  to  another,  that  are  called  by  the  wood- 


BEAVER   CANALS.  327 

men  "Beaver  Canals,"  which,  it  is  said,  arc  the 
works  of  the  beaver.  These  u  Canals  "  are  some 
three  or  four  feet  wide,  the  water  with  scarcely  a 
perceptible  current,  and  in  some  none  at  all,  wind 
ing  across  the  marshes,  skirted  by  tall  grass  or  flags, 
and  you  feel  almost  certain  that  they  are  not  natural 
water-courses.  You  can  easily  persuade  yourself 
that  they  are  the  work  of  art,  have  been  excavated 
for  the  purpose  of  opening  a  convenient  passage 
way,  and  the  many  muskrats  that  are  seen  con 
stantly  swimming  to  and  fro  in  them  prove  that 
they  are  still  regarded  as  highways  of  travel.  There 
is  one  across  a  neck  of  land  on  the  Kacquette  Kiver, 
just  above  a  noted  locality  known  as  the  "  drift 
wood."  This  "  Canal  "  is  some  quarter  of  a  mile 
in  length,  leading  from  the  river  to  a  body  of 
water  containing  probably  three  thousand  acres, 
known  as  Isham's  Pond.  This  pond  connects  with^ 
and  is  on  the  same  level  with  the  river,  and  the 
"  Canal "  across  the  Isthmus  saves  a  journey  of 
some  four  or  five  miles  round.  It  is  from  four  to 
six  or  eight  feet  in  width,  through  a  dense  forest  of 
lowland  timber.  The  water  is  about  two  feet  in 
depth,  though  the  excavation,  if  excavation  it  be,  is 
from  four  to  six  feet  in  depth.  We  passed  through 
this  canal  with  our  boat.  There  was  scarcely  a 
perceptible  current.  Whether  it  is  the  work  of  the 
beaver,  hundreds  of  years  ago,  or  a  natural  canal,  I 
do  not  undertake  to  say,  but  to  me  it  appeared  like 
an  artificial  channel,  made  for  convenience  of  com- 


328  COUNTRY   RAMBLES. 

munication  between  the  river  and  pond,  and  our 
boatmen  seemed  to  have  no  doubt  on  the  subject. 

I  have  thus  far  given  you  the  romance  of  a 
journey  into  these  woods,  the  sports  that  abound 
here,  the  abundance  of  trout  and  deer,  the  beauty 
of  the  lakes  and  rivers,  the  romantic  and  wild 
scenery  which  you  will  find  spread  out  all  around 
you.  It  is,  in  sober  truth,  a  charming  region  to 
visit,  for  the  purpose  of  whiling  away  a  fortnight  or 
a  month.  But — and  what  a  pity  it  is  that  this 
disjunctive  should  always  steal  in,  standing  forever 
in  the  way  of  fulness  of  enjoyment,  obstructing  our 
pleasures,  and  casting  a  shadow  on  what  should  be 
all  brightness,  all  sunlight,  all  glory.  Yet  so  it  is, 
there  is  a  BUT  in  this  case,  and  at  this  season  of  the 
year,  during  the  month  of  June,  the  freshest,  green 
est,  brightest,  loveliest,  most  glorious  of  all  the 
months,  when  the  birds  are  merriest,  the  forest 
foliage  most  beautiful,  the  air  balmiest,  and  all 
nature  is  clothed  in  its  gayest  garments,  decked 
with  its  sweetest  smiles,  the  black  fly  greedy  for 
blood,  hungry,  relentless  in  cruelty,  swarm  in  mill 
ions  around  you,  and  spite  of  your  most  active 
exertions,  your  most  ingenious  devices  subject  you, 
especially  if  your  skin  is  thinner  than  that  of  the 
rhinoceros,  to  a  protracted  torment,  to  which  cruci 
fixion  would  almost  seern  a  positive  pleasure.  I 
am  a  reasonably  courageous  and  persevering  man 
in  pursuit  of  pleasure  in  the  woods.  I  can  bear  a 
great  deal  of  positive  hardship,  labor,  for  which, 


THE  SARANAC  WOODS.         329 

were  it  encountered  for  hire,  a  very  large  upile" 
would  have  to  be  paid.  I  have  before  now  been 
hungry  and  cold,  I  have  fought  the  musquito  and 
the  midget,  been  out  in  the  rain  and  the  chill  winds > 
in  pursuit  of  game.  I  have  tramped  in  hot  days 
long  miles  over  mountains,  stumbling  over  boulders 
and  among  tangle-brush,  weary  and  dripping  with 
perspiration.  I  have  encountered  the  black  fly 
before  in  these  same  woods  and  in  the  same  beau 
tiful  month  of  June  without  a  thought  of  surren 
dering,  but  I  never,  and  the  oldest  hunter  of  these 
woods  never  encountered  them  in  such  myriads, 
absolute  swarms,  as  they  have  appeared  the  present 
season.-  I  have  been  compelled  to  surrender,  ac 
knowledge  myself  vanquished.  I  said  we  intended  to 
stay  here  a  week.  "We  came  here  last  evening  and 
we  start  for  home  this  morning,  absolutely  driven 
from  the  woods  by  the  BLACK  FLY,  a  little  insect 
not  larger  than  the  head  of  a  pin,  but  with  teeth 
like  a  tiger's.  If  I  live  to  get  out  to  the  settlements? 
a  problem  the  solution  of  which  the  next  two  days 
will  solve,  if  there  is  enough  of  me  left  to  make  it 
an  object  worth  preserving,  I'll  tell  you  in  my  next 
all  about  it.  If  I  should  be  clean  eaten  up,  a 
catastrophe  by  no  means  improbable,  do  not  charge 
it  to  the  panthers  or  the  wolves,  lay  no  blame  upon 
the  bears  or  any  of  the  beasts  of  prey,  but  to  the 
BLACK  FLY.  In  that  unhappy  event,  my  last 
injunction  is :  KEEP  OUT  OF  THE  SARANAC  WOODS 

IN  THE  MONTH  OF  JUNE. 
14* 


IX. 


A., 


SUNRISE    IN    THK    COUNTRY. 

"  I've  seen  the  sun  rise.  I  saw  his  vanguard  of  light  that 
preceded  his  ascent  from  the  other  side  of  the  world.  I  saw 
him  when  he  leaped  into  his  chariot  and  started  westward 
across  the  sky." — Letter  from  a  Correspondent. 

WE  have  witnessed  the  same  phenomenon  three 
times  during  the  present  month.  Once  we  were 
on  the  St.  Lawrence,  along  the  island  that  lays  op 
posite  Cape  Vincent.  Once  we  were  on  Lake 
Champlain,  opposite  Burlington ;  and  once  sitting 
on  a  venerable,  moss-covered  boulder  overlooking 
a  beautiful  meadow  just  by  the  village  of  Lenox, 
in  the  State  of  Massachusetts.  It  is  a  glorious 
thing,  the  rising  of  the  sun  of  a  calm,  clear  sum 
mer  morning.  At  Cape  Vincent  we  rose  while  the 
larger  stars  were  yet  shining  faintly  in  the  firma 
ment,  and  the  moon  was  still  visible  in  the  sky. 
The  morning  was  warm  and  still,  the  river  unruffled, 
and  we  started  with  an  early  waterman  in  a  row- 
boat  from  the  dock,  to  troll  for  the  pickerel,  bass  or 
muscalange,  if  they  choose  to  make  the  acquaint 
ance  of  our  baited  hook.  We  heard  the  first 


334  APPENDIX  A. 

morning  song  of  the  wild  bird,  and  saw  the  last  star 
vanish  in  depths  of  the  sky.  We  saw  the  light 
grow  brighter  and  brighter  in  the  east,  as  the  twi 
light  faded  into  day.  We  had  just  hooked  a  famous 
pickerel,  and  were  drawing  him  in  on  a  line  250 
feet  in  length,  as  the  sun  came  up  over  the  eastern 
hill  in  all  the  brightness  of  his  glory.  It  was  a 
splendid  thing  to  look  upon,  and  so  was  the  pickerel 
that  had  our  hook  in  his  jaw.  The  sun  blazed 
along  the  surface  of  the  water,  dazzling  the  eye  by 
his  sheen,  and  the  pickerel  floundered  in  his  astonish 
ment,  while  we  looked  first  upon  the  one  and  then 
upon  the  other,  rejoicing  in  the  double  favor  that 
was  granted  us,  and  thinking 

"  How  happy  could  we  be  with  either, 
Were  the  other  dear  charmer  away." 

We  admired  the  sunrise,  and  hauled  in  on  the 
pickerel.  We  made  prey  of  the  fish,  and  let  the 
sun  go  on  in  his  course. 

At  Burlington,  we  were  out  on  the  lake  alone  in 
a  skiff  by  the  time  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  illumin 
ed  the  Eastern  horizon.  It  was  a  calm,  beautiful 
morning,  the  air  was  balmy  and  full  of  invigorating 
freshness.  A  light  breeze  rippled  the  surface  of 
the  water,  as  we  rowed  out  from  the  shore  to  watch 
the  departure  of  the  darkness,  and  see  the  lighting 
up  of  the  world  by  the  sun,  as  he  came  up  from  his 
resting  place.  We  saw  how  he  first  gave  his  rays 
to  glow  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains  away  off  in 


SUNRISE   IN  THE  COUNTRY.     335 

Essex,  while  in  the  valleys  at  their  base  the  gray- 
ness  of  twilight  still  lingered.  We  saw  the  sunlight 
chasing  the  shadows  down  the  sides  of  the  moun 
tains,  and  we  looked  upon  the  sun  as  he  seemed  to 
hang  for  a  moment,  like  a  great  torch  among  the 
trees  that  stood  out  on  the  eastern  summits  against 
the  sky,  and  then  how  he  rose  above  them  to  go 
forth  on  his  course,  like  a  charioteer  of  old,  with  his 
steeds  of  fire.  He  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  great 
ness  of  his  strength  as  he  leaped  clear  of  the  hills 
and  mounted  aloft  in  the  sky.  The  darkness  van 
ished  from  before  him,  and  the  moon  and  stars  hid 
themselves  from  the  glory  of  his  presence.  We 
breakfasted  on  a  yellow  bass  that  morning,  which 
was  but  one  of  a  half-dozen  we  caught  before  the 
sun  was  clear  of  the  tree-tops. 

At  Lenox,  among  the  mountains  of  the  Old  Bay 
State,  we  saw  the  sun  rise  again.  Lenox  is  a  sweet 
spot,  surrounded  by  an  amphitheatre  of  hills.  Beauti 
ful  farms  are  spread  out  all  around  the  town.  Beauti 
ful  roads,  lined  on  either  side  by  the  sugar  maple  ; 
beautiful  streams  and  beautiful  lakes  are  within 
range  of  a  morning  walk,  or  an  evening  drive.  It 
has  pleasant  fields  and  shady  groves  in  sight,  and 
deep  ravines  where  the  grass  grows  to  the  edge  of 
the  soft-toned  brooklet,  as  it  sings  faintly  over  the 
smooth  pebbles,  and  the  deep  shadows  of  the  arch 
ing  trees  cool  the  heat  of  noon.  We  rose,  as  at 
Cape  Yincent  and  Burlington,  while  the  twilight 
yet  hovered  over  the  fields  and  town.  We  saw  the 
thin  mist  rising  from  the  meadows,  and  creeping  up 


336  APPENDIX  A. 

the  sides  of  the  hills,  hiding  their  shadowy  verdure, 
and  making  them  look  like  the  fair  face  of  a  maiden 
shining  dimly  in  its  beauty  through  a  veil  of  gauze. 
We  heard  the  wild  matin  songs  as  they  broke  in 
their  gladness  from  the  stillness  of  night,  and  watch 
ed  the  swallows  as  they  started  from  the  barns  and 
chimneys  on  their  arrowy  flight.  "We  heard  the 
first  note  of  the  meadow-lark,  as  he  flew  from  his 
night  perch,  and  the  last  song  of  the  whip-poor-will, 
as  he  folded  his  wings  to  rest  for  the  day.  We  sat 
for  half  an  hour  on  a  venerable  boulder  that  over 
looked  a  meadow.  On  our  right,  at  a  few  rods  dis 
tance,  was  a  half-grown  elm,  on  the  topmost  branch 
of  which  sat  a  brown  thrush,  singing  his  morning 
song,  and  swaying  gracefully  in  the  breeze  while 
he  sang.  On  our  left  was  a  thorn  bush,  among  the 
thick  branches  of  which  the  catbird  mocked  the 
brown  thrush,  while  over  against  us,  perched  upon 
a  fence  stake,  was  a  quail,  whistling  in  his  clear  and 
silvery  notes  to  his  mate,  as  she  brooded  in  her  fond 
ness  over  her  treasured  nest. 

'Twas  a  pleasant  thing  to  watch  the  departure  of 
the  night  shadows,  to  hear  the  voices  of  the  morning 
breaking  into  harmony,  and  look  upon  the  sun  as 
he  came  up  from  behind  the  eastern  hills.  It  seemed 
to  us  that  the  gladness  grew  in  intensity,  and  that 
a  new  song  burst  forth  as  he  came  into  view.  The 
brown  thrush  sang  with  a  clearer  voice,  and  the  cat 
bird  in  his  thorn  bush  mocked  with  fresh  vigor, 
while  the  bob-o-link  darted  up  from  the  meadow- 


SUNRISE   IN  THE   COUNTRY.      337 

grass  with  a  freer  bound,  and  while  he  shook  the 
dew-drops  from  his  wing,  and  balanced  himself 
gracefully  in  the  air,  sang  with  a  prolonged  lay,  and 
a  gladder  energy. 

Sunrise  in  the  country  is  a  glorious  sight,  a  vision 
infinitely  more  pleasant  than  those  which  visit  the 
pillow  of  the  sluggard  while  indulging  in  his  morn 
ing  sleep.  Go  out  into  the  country  among  the  moun 
tains,  or  among  the  fields,  where  everything  is  fresh, 
where  the  dew-drops  glisten  on  the  grass,  or  sparkle 
on  the  forest  leaves — where  the  morning  breeze 
comes  to  you  fragrant  from  the  meadows  or  the  foli 
age  of  the  old  woods.  Look  upon  the  stars  as  they 
depart  from  the  sky,  and  upon  the  sun  as  he  comes 
up  from  his  bed  of  darkness.  It  is  a  glorious  ex 
hibition,  and  open  for  all.  It  can  be  seen  without 
money,  and  enjoyed  without  price.  Go  into  the 
country  and  see  the  sun  rise. 


THE    "SAINTS'    REST." 

You  need  not  take  down  your  map  and  look  for 
the  location  of  "The  Saints'  Rest."  It  is  not  laid 
down  on  the  map.  You  need  not  look  into  your 
gazetteer.  It  is  not  in  the  gazetteer.  You  need  not 
inquire  of  the  oldest  inhabitant  about  its  locality, 
for  he  has  never  heard  of  it.  It  is  not  the  place  that 
good  people  have  been  looking  for,  for  ages,  the 
place  where  Christian  people  hope  to  repose  when 
earth,  with  its  cares  and  sorrows,  shall  have  passed 
away.  And  yet  "  The  Saints'  Rest"  is  a  veritable 
locality.  It  occupies  a  place  in  the  world,  and  is 
not  inaptly  named.  First  let  me  tell  you  how  we 
got  here,  and  who  I  mean  by  we,  for  I  am  not 
alone. 

At  Coudersport  we  took  a  lumber  wagon,  and 
packing  our  movables,  consisting  of  provisions, 
fishing  tackle,  and  a  rifle,  took  to  the  woods,  over 
a  road  such  as  you  have  probably  never  travelled. 
Great  bags  stuffed  with  hay,  as  compactly  as  they 
could  be,  and  laid  in  the  bottom  of  the  box,  con 
stituted  our  seats.  I  said  we  took  to  the  woods 


"TiiE   SAINTS'    REST."  339 

and  we  went  up  and  up  for  hours,  towards  the  top 
of  a  range  of  hills  that  seemed  to  have  no  summit, 
over  a  road  that  was  good,  at  least  for  dyspeptics, 
if  jolting  over  roots  and  topling  clown  into  deep 
holes  is  beneficial.  Once  in  two  or  three  miles  we 
would  come  to  a  clearing  of  a  few  acres,  with  a  log- 
house,  or  maybe  two  or  three  near  each  other,  com 
posing  a  little  settlement  surrounded  by  a  dense  and 
sombre  forest  of  great  hemlocks,  from  the  limbs  of 
which  the  lichens  hung,  and  above  which  mountain 
peaks  went  looming  up  towards  the  sky. 

Towards  four  o'clock  we  came  in  sight  of  a  little 
settlement  of  three  or  four  families,  the  entire  of 
whose  clearings  may  have  amounted  to  a  hundred 
and  fifty  acres.  A  log  house  for  each  family,  and 
two  or  three  barns,  constituted  all  the  buildings  in 
sight.  The  day  had  been  excessively  warm  and 
sultry.  The  tree  frogs  were  piping  all  along  the 
road ;  the  leaves  on  the  trees  as  they  stirred  in  the 
sluggish  breeze,  lifted  their  leaves  fan-like  to  the 
sun;  making  the  tree-top  shine  all  over  like  silver. 
As  the  day  advanced,  clouds  came  flying  over  in 
solemn  procession  from  the  southwest,  indicating  that 
a  storm  was  on  the  march.  As  we  entered  this  little 
clearing  dark  and  heavy  clouds  came  heaving  sol 
emnly  up  over  the  western  hills,  the  low  growl  of  the 
thunder  was  heard  in  the  distance,  faint  flashes  of 
lightning  glanced  across  the  sky,  while  around  us  was 
the  gloomy  stillness  that  precedes  a  summer  storm. 
We  were  some  dozen  miles  from  the  "  The  Saints' 


340  APPENDIX   B. 

Rest,"  seven  or  eight  of  which  lay  through  woods 
without  a  house.  We  applied  at  one  of  the  houses 
in  sight,  and  were  accommodated  for  the  night. 
We  had  got  ourselves  and  our  team  comfort 
ably  housed,  and  the  storm  came  on.  It  was  a 
goodly  sight  to  see  the  rain  come  down  as  it  did 
then,  as  if  the  clouds  had  been  torn  asunder  to 
empty  their  contents  at  once  in  a  rushing  flood 
upon  the  earth.  It  was  a  goodly  sight  to  see  the 
lightning,  flashing  and  streaking,  in  a  ragged,  zig 
zag  from  the  clouds  down  to  the  forest-covered  hills, 
and  it  was  a  goodly  sound  to  hear  the  sudden  boom 
of  the  thunder  as  it  burst  like  artillery  upon  the  ear, 
and  went  rolling  and  dying  away  among  the  moun 
tains.  In  an  hour  the  rain  was  over,  and  the  bow 
of  promise  hung  arching  upon  the  rear  of  the  storm. 
In  the  morning  we  breakfasted  with  our  entertainer, 
compensated  him  for  his  trouble  as  far  as  money 
could  do,  and  grateful  for  his  kindness,  look  up  our 
journey  again  for  the  "  Saints'  Rest."  You  may 
judge  of  the  quality  of  the  road  when  I  tell  you  we 
were  some  seven  hours  in  going  less  than  a  dozen 
miles.  We  passed  over  a  high  range,  and  went 
singing  and  jolting,  whistling  and  laughing  down 
towards  the  Sinnemahoning,  in  the  pleasant  valley 
of  which  is  the  "  Saints'  Rest."  Our  last  mile  or 
two  lay  along  a  stream  that  came  down  from  the 
hills,  beautifully  clear  and  cold,  and  I  left  my 
companions  with  the  promise  to  procure  a  mess  of 
fish  for  our  dinners.  I  redeemed  that  pledge,  for 


"THE   SAINTS'  BEST."  341 

within  two  hours  of  their  arrival  at  the  "Saints' 
Best,"  I  was  there  with  a  basket  literally  full,  of  as 
beautiful  speckled  trout  as  an  epicure  would  wish 
to  see. 

And  now  you  ask  who  compose  the  we,  of  which 
I  have  been  speaking,  for  you  are  aware  that  in 
these  letters  I  indulge  in  no  editorial  plurals.  Well, 
first  and  foremost,  there  is  the  Dominie,  a  pleasant 
arid  a  Christian  man,  one  who,  while  he  never  for 
gets  the  dignity  of  his  high  calling,  is  neither  a  zealot 
nor  a  bigot.  He  is  a  man  of  varied  reading  and  ripe 
scholarship,  full  of  pleasant  anecdote,  and  of  a  cheer 
ful  wit.  He  is  no  ascetic,  moving  along  through 
the  world  with  a  brow  of  solemn  severity,  who  "  will 
not  smile  though  Nestor  swears  the  joke  is  laugha 
ble."  Then  there  is  the  dominie's  wife,  a  cheerful- 
hearted,  pleasant  and  accomplished  lady.  Then 
there  is  my  friend  the  lawyer,  a  man  whose  weak 
ness  is  a  pleasant  trout  stream,  a  rod  and  fly — one 
who  takes  to  the  water  like  a  duck,  as  if  he  were 
amphibious,  who,  with  rod  in  hand,  will  stalk 
boldly  into  the  stream,  and  throw  the  fly  with  the 
water  rippling  around  his  knee-pans,  defying  all  the 
spirits  of  neuralgia,  rheumatism  and  lumbago;  a 
man,  too, -of  giant  sympathies,  and  a  big  heart.  And 
then,  there  is  his  wife,  who  sings  like  a  bird,  and 
loves  nature  with  the  strong  affection  of  a  devotee 
— a  most  sensible  and  excellent  woman,  younger 
than  the  dominie's  wife,  and  less  serious,  per 
haps,  as  if  fitting  for  a  lawyer's  lady.  Then  there 


342  APPENDIX  B. 

is  my  own  wife,  of  whom  it  does  not  become  me  to 
speak,  save  that  we  started  in  life  together  before 
either  had  numbered  twenty  years,  and  have  walked 
quietly  and  peacefully  through  many  dark  days  and 
sore  trials,  to  the  present  time,  and  no  repining  or 
unkind  word  has  she  spoken,  to  me  at  least.  Here, 
then,  we  are,  six  of  us,  at  the  "  Saints'  Rest,"  in  the 
sequestered  valley  of  the  Sinnemahoning.  and  here 
we  propose  to  stay  for  a  week.  By  the  way,  shortly 
after  I  left  the  wagon,  and  while  the  ladies  were 
talking  about  the  wild  animals  that  belong  in  these 
old  forests,  a  fine  deer  stepped  from  the  covert  of 
the  woods,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  into  an 
open  space  on  the  bank,  and  having  gazed  for  a 
moment  upon  them,  hoisted  his  white  flag  and 
bounded  away.  It  was  a  pleasant  and  a  new  sight 
to  them.  They  described,  with  enthusiasm,  his  sym 
metry  of  form,  and  his  graceful  movements,  as  he 
bounded  into  the  forest. 

To  you,  who  profess  only  a  love  for  brick  houses 
and  paved  thoroughfares,  who  prefer  the  long 
vista  of  a  street,  with  the  rumbling  of  carriages 
and  a  moving  panorama  of  sidewalks  covered  with 
people,  to  tall  mountains  and  old  forests,  and 
streams  and  fields,  there  would  be  nothing  inviting 
here.  Every  locality  has  its  legends  and  every 
place  its  history,  and  why  should  not  this  quiet 
spot,  have  its  history  and  its  legends,  too  ?  The 
"Saints'  Kest"  has  its  history  as  well  as  the  largest 
city.  It  is  only  a  clearing  of  some  five-and-twenty 


"THE   SAINTS'   REST."  343 

acres,  having  a  house  of  the  composite  order  of 
architecture,  being  a  log  house  and  a  frame  one  con 
joined.  My  friend,  the  lawyer  who  is  with  me,  a 
year  or  two  since  furnished  its  owner  with  the 
means  of  building  an  addition  to  his  log-house,  to 
accommodate  him  and  his  friends  on  their  fishing 
excursions  to  the  valley  of  the  Sinnemahoning. 
While  he  and  his  male  companions  came,  without 
their  wives,  it  was  called  the  "Sinners'  Home." 
Last  season  they  brought  their  wives,  and  so  glow 
ing  were  their  descriptions  of  its  charms,  that  the 
old  name  was  expunged,  and  it  was  christened  the 
"  Saints'  Best'." 

We  are  here,  six  of  us,  as  I  told  you  in  my  last, 
in  one  of  the  most  primitive  and  secluded  spots  in 
the  world.  In  front  of  the  door  runs  the  Sinnema 
honing,  a  most  pleasant  little  river,  on  its  way  to 
the  noble  Susquehanna.  In  the  still  night,  and  in 
the  early  morning,  you  hear  its  gentle  song  as  it 
flows  along  in  ripples  over  the  smooth  stones.  To 
the  right,  a  mountain  peak  runs  upward  towards 
the  sky  to  the  height  of  some  fifteen  hundred  or 
two  thousand  feet,  covered  with  gigantic  hemlocks 
to  the  summit.  In  front  is  a  mountain  range,  regu 
lar  in  form,  extending  north  and  south,  which 
forms  the  eastern  barrier  to  the  narrow  valley  of  the 
Sinnemahoning,  rising  to  the  height  of  fifteen  hun 
dred  feet,  with  a  steep  acclivity,  covered  with  dark 
evergreens,  the  mountain  birch,  and  gnarled  maples 
to  the  top.  To  the  left,  the  valley  stretching  away 


344  APPENDIX   B. 

to  the  north,  and  from  among  the  arching  trees, 
that  reach  their  long  arms  out  over  the  water,  and 
the  dense  willows  that  grow  thick  and  luxuriant 
along  the  shore,  the  river  comes  quietly  out  as  from 
a  cavern,  and  is  lost  to  the  view  in  its  solemn 
shades.  In  the  rear  of  the  house  is  another  moun 
tain,  lifting  its  sombre  head  to  the  clouds,  to  the 
left  of  which  a  little  stream  comes  down  through  a 
mountain  gorge,  while  on  the  right  is  a  pleasant 
valley  reaching  away  up  between  the  hills,  where 
the  old  forest  stands  in  all  its  primeval  grandeur, 
and  through  the  centre  of  which  a  cold  stream 
carries  its  tribute  to  the  river,  in  sight  of  the 
"  Saints'  Kest."  Here,  then,  in  this  bowl,  this  valley, 
surrounded  by  high  mountains,  is  the  "  Saints' 
Best."  Pleasant  fields  are  around  the  house.  A 
foot-bridge  consisting  of  the  long  trunk  of  a  great 
pine,  hewn  on  one  side,  spans  the  river,  beneath 
which  the  water  spreads  out  still,  placid  and  lake- 
like.  Just  below,  there  is  a  ripple  where  the  river 
goes  singing  along  over  the  smooth  stones,  swirling 
away  under  caverned  banks,  and  then  hiding  itself 
in  deep  eddies  among  the  piled-up  drift  wood  that 
bridges  it  when  the  water  is  low.  The  owner  of 
this  spot  has  been  here  some  nineteen  years,  and  is 
one  of  nature's  nobility,  an  honest  and  a  Christian 
man.  He  is  the  owner  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 
acres  of  land,  and  was  the  first  man  that  ventured 
into  this  wild  region  as  a  settler.  He  is  an  Irish 
man.  He  came  from  Philadelphia  at  that  early 


"THE   SAINTS'   REST."  345 

day  as  an  agent  for  a  large  land  owner.  He  erected 
for  his  principal  a  dam  across  the  river,  and  a  log- 
mill.  The  dam  is  standing  where  it  was  built,  and 
the  log-mill  is  there  but  it  has  gone  to  ruin — the 
rafters  decayed,  and  the  roof  fallen  in — the  water 
way  has  become  filled  up,  and  willows  and  alders 
grow  around  the  doors,  and  reach  their  arms  in  at 
the  windows,  and  hang  them  over  the  logs  that 
formed  the  outer  walls  of  the  mill,  hiding  what 
remains  of  the  structure  from  view,  as  if  to  conceal 
the  decay  and  desolation  that  has  settled  down 
upon  it. 

I  have  been  exceedingly  interested  in  hearing  his 
excellent  and  simple-minded  wife  recount  the  scenes 
through  which  she  passed  in  the  first  years  of  her 
residence  here.  On  one  occasion  she  took  her  in 
fant  in  her  arms  and  went  out  to  where  her  hus 
band  was  engaged  in  chopping  down  the  trees.  Let 
me  tell  you  her  story  as  she  told  it  to  me,  in  her 
own  simple  language.  "  I  was  lonesome,"  she  said, 
"in  the  house,  and  I  took  Lizzie"  (her  daughter, 
now  a  wife  and  mother)  "  in.  my  arms,  and  went 
out  to  where  my  husband  was  at  work.  She  was 
a  little  baby  then,  but  a  few  weeks  old,  and  I  wrap 
ped  her  in  a  shawl  to  keep  the  wind  from  blowing 
upon  her.  When  I  came  out  to  where  my  husband 
was,  I  told  him  I'd  help  pick  up  the  brush,  and  he 
told  me  to  lay  Lizzie  down  by  the  side  of  a  stump. 
She  was  asleep,  and  I  wrapped  her  up  carefully  and 
laid  her  down  among  the  bushes,  and  went  to 
15 


346  APPENDIX   B. 

gathering  up  the  brush  and  piling  them  in  heaps. 
My  husband  was  cutting  down  a  large  tree  at  a 
little  distance,  and  I  went  up  to  where  he  was.  I  . 
asked  him  which  way  the  tree  would  fall,  and  he 
pointed  in  a  direction  different  from  where  my 
baby  lay.  I  stood  by  him,  seeing  the  chips  fly  as 
he  swung  his  axe,  and  watched  the  tree  as  it  began 
to  reel  to  its  fall  like  a  drunken  man.  It  began  to 
shake  at  the  top  as  if  in  great  trouble,  swayed  for 
a  moment  this  way  and  that,  and  then  started, 
slowly  at  first,  right  towards  where  my  baby  lay. 
You  can't  tell  what  my  feelings  were.  My  heart 
swelled  with  horror  almost  to  bursting  as  the  tree 
went  reeling  to  its  fall.  I  screamed  in  agony  as  it 
went  sweeping  along  through  the  air,  and,  wild 
with  terror,  thrust  my  fingers  into  my  ears  to  shut 
out  the  death-scream  of  my  child,  and  ran  like  a 
crazy  woman  into  the  woods.  My  husband  ran  to 
where  my  baby  lay,  and  was  there  almost  as  soon 
as  the  tree  touched  the  ground.  There  by  the  side 
of  the  stump,  with  the  broken  and  crushed  limbs 
all  around  it,  lay  my  baby  unharmed.  He  turned 
and  ran  after  me  into  the  woods,  hallooing  to  me  to 
stop  and  come  back,  and  that  LIZZIE  wasn't  hurt. 
That  was  a  glad  voice  to  me,  and  the  words  went 
to  my  heart  at  first  like  a  dream.  I  stopped  for  a 
moment  to  listen  again.  *  LIZZIE  is  safe,'  cried 
my  husband,  'come  back.'  I  couldn't  yet  fully 
understand  the  meaning  of  what  he  said.  '  LIZZIE 
is  safe '  seemed  to  be  sounding  all  around  me.  It 


"THE   SAINTS'   REST."  347 

came  down  like  a  voice  from  the  sky,  and  upward 
like  a  voice  from  the  earth.  The  great  trees  all 
around  me  all  seemed  to  have  voices  of  gladness, 
and  all  seemed  to  say  ' LIZZIE  is  safe.'  'Come 
back,'  I  heard  my  husband  say  again,  *  LIZZIE 
aint  hurt;'  and  everything  around  me  seemed  full 
of  happy  laughter  and  great  joy.  I  stopped  and 
listened  in  bewilderment,  and  as  I  did  so,  '  LIZZIE 
is  safe '  was  anywhere,  above,  below  and  around  me, 
everything  cried  '  LIZZIE  is  safe.'  My  husband 
came  up  to  me  and  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said 
kindly,  'Don't  be  frightened,  LIZZIE  isn't  hurt;' 
and  then  a  trembling  came  over  me,  and  my 
strength  seemed  to  be  all  gone.  In  a  moment  I 
was  better,  and  when  my  mind  took  in  the  sense 
of  my  husband's  words,  I  thanked  God  with  a  full 
heart  that  he  had  turned  a  great  sorrow  from  me. 
I  went  with  my  husband  to  where  I  left  my  baby, 
and  there  lay  the  little  thing,  hid  away  among  the 
broken  limbs  of  the  great  hemlock,  and  the  bent 
and  tangled  bushes,  like  MOSES  among  the  rushes, 
fast  asleep.  The  great  hemlock  had,  in  its  fall, 
struck  the  stump  by  the  side  of  which  LIZZIE  lay, 
and  glanced  off  on  the  other  side ;  but  its  limbs, 
broken  and  ragged,  had  been  forced  into  the  ground 
all  around  her,  and  it  was  a  wonder  and  a  great 
mercy  that  she  was  not  crushed. 

"I  took  her  up  and  went  home  and  laid  her  in  her 
cradle,  and  then  knelt  down  and  thanked  the  great 
and  good  God,  that  takes  care  of  his  creatures,  even 


APPENDIX    B. 

in  the  deep  forests,  and  the  lone  woods.  I've  pass 
ed  through  many  sorrows,  and  I  never  wept  as 
long  at  once  as  I  did  then,  but  it  wasn't  with  grief. 
I  was  very  happy.  My  heart  was  very  light,  but 
I  couldn't  laugh.  It  seemed  as  though  joy  like 
mine  could  only  speak  in  a  low  hushed  voice,  and 
be  seen  only  in  tears.  Lizzie  has  been  a  kind,  good 
girl,  all  her  life,  and  I  often  tell  her  how  lonely  and 
sorrowful  my  life  would  have  been,  had  she  been 
crushed  to  death  by  that  great  tree  felled  by  her 
father's  hands." 

We  arrived  here  of  a  Saturday  afternoon,  and 
it  being  ascertained  that  one  of  our  number  was  a 
clergyman,  the  good  lady  of  the  house  urged  him  to 
preach  to  the  settlers  on  the  coming  Sabbath.  To 
this  he  cheerfully  consented,  and  word  was  sent  to 
all  the  families  on  the  Sinnemahoning,  some  six  or 
seven  in  all.  On  the  morrow  they  came  in,  hus 
bands,  wives,  and  little  children,  to  hear  what  was 
not  often  permitted  them  in  their  wilderness  home 
— the  preaching  of  the  gospel,  and  to  mingle  in  the 
public  worship  of  God  on  the  day  of  his  appoint 
ment.  The  number  was  small,  but  I  have  never 
seen  a  more  attentive  and  seemingly  devout  audi 
ence.  When  the  service  was  over,  they  gathered 
around  the  excellent  dominie,  shook  him  cordially 
and  gratefully  by  the  hand,  and  then  departed 
quietly  and  cheerfully  to  their  homes.  Blessings 
on  these  good  people  that  have  made  their  homes 
away  out  here  in  these  narrow  and  secluded  valleys, 


"THE   SAINTS'   BEST."  349 

beneath  the  shadow  of  these  tall  mountains,  and 
amid  the  gloom  and  seclusion  of  these  ancient 
forests. 

I  have  been  here  a  week,  and  have  as  yet  seen  no 
man  or  woman,  save  those  who  came  with  me,  who 
belongs  outside  of  this  sequestered  valley.  I  have 
seen  no  team  passing  along  the  road,  no  traveller 
winding  his  way  to  some  remoter  spot,  or  to  some 
settlement  further  in  the  wilderness.  I  have,  how 
ever,  seen  the  mail  boy  that  comes  to  this  neighbor 
hood  once  a  week  on  horseback.  The  post-office  is 
about  a  mile  from  us,  and  is  "  the  last  of  the  series.3' 
The  post-boy  delivers  his  collapsed  mail  bags  to  the 
post-master,  feeds  his  weary  nag,  and  then  turns 
back  towards  home.  There  is  no  post-office  beyond 
this,  on  this  side  of  the  mountains.  There  are  fifteen 
voters  in  the  town,  and  the  quarterly  receipts  at  the 
post-office,  I  understand,  average  about  seventy -five 
cents  per  quarter. 

I  love  this  lonely  region — I  could  dally  here  for 
weeks  among  the  hills,  and  forests,  and  streams.  I 
hear  the  old  sounds  that  were  familiar  to  me  in  my 
boyhood,  and  see  the  things  that  I  have  not  seen 
since  my  early  youth.  In  the  evening,  so  delight 
fully  cool,  we  sit  on  the  foot-bridge,  and  listen  to 
the  old  owls  away  up  on  the  sides  of  the  mountain, 
talking  to  each  other  among  the  old  hemlock  trees. 
"Hoo!  hoo!  hooho!"  says  one  on  the  right. 
*'  Hoo  !  hoo  !  hooho !"  says  another  on  the  left,  and 
uHoo!  hao!  hooho!"  says  a  third  among  the 
15* 


350  APPENDIX   B. 

branches  of  a  great  tree  near  us,  and  their  solemn 
voices  come  out  on  the  night  air,  like  those  of  the 
wood  demons,  as  if  inquiring  who  it  is  that  invade 
their  territory  and  profane  their  ancient  sanctuaries 
by  human  footsteps,  and  the  voice  of  civilization. 
Along  the  stream  the  frogs  croak,  and  the  peepers 
send  their  shrill  voices  from  among  the  grass  in  the 
damp  and  marshy  places.  The  raccoon  calls  from 
the  margin  of  the  woods  along  the  clearing,  and  is 
answered  from  away  off  in  the  forest.  The  fire 
flies  flash  their  tiny  torches  along  the  meadow,  and 
over  the  still  waters.  The  voice  of  the  river  is 
heard  away  below  us,  as  it  flows  over  the  riffles, 
singing  as  it  dances  over  the  smooth  stones,  in  a 
ceaseless  chaunt,  and  the  wind  murmurs  softly 
among  the  thick  foliage  of  the  trees.  Then,  when 
we  have  listened  to  all  these  forest  sounds,  so 
ancient  and  so  primitive,  we  lift  up  our  own  voices 
in  song.  I  said  in  a  former  letter,  that  we  had  with 
us  a  lady  (the  lawyer's  wife)  who  could  "  sing  like 
a  bird,"  and  it  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  her 
sweet  clear  voice  swell  out  on  the  night  air,  full  and 
melodious,  and  to  note  how  the  other  sounds  ceased 
as  echo  prolonged  the  strains,  as  if  enraptured  by 
the  new  and  pleasant  music. 

^e  have  many  romantic  spots  to  resort  to  in  the 
heat  of  noon,  where  we  talk  over  the  things  of  the 
outside  world  in  a  quiet  way,  as  we  sit  around  on 
the  green  knolls  or  the  trunks  of  the  fallen  trees. 
There  is  a  little  island  near  the  foot-bridge,  covered 


"THE  SAINTS'   KES-T."  351 

with  great  trees,  from  which  the  underbrush  has 
been  cleared  away;  so  that  the  ground  is  covered 
with  a  delightful  grassy  verdure.  Above,  the  arms 
of  the  trees  are  lovingly  intertwined,  their  thick 
foliage  shutting  out  the  sunshine,  and  making  a 
shade  beneath,  delightfully  cool  and  sweet,  while  the 
rippling  waters  are  murmuring  all  around.  This  is 
one  of  our  favorite  resorts  when  the  sun  is  high ;  and 
were  all  those  that  we  love — our  children,  and  our 
heart  companions — around  us,  it  would  be  hard  to 
part  from  the  charming  spot.  As  we  were  sitting 
on  the  foot-bridge  I  spoke  of,  on  the  Sunday  even 
ing  after  our  arrival  here,  the  inquiry  arose  as  to  how 
many  trout  would  be  required  for  a  breakfast  for 
all.  We  settled  upon  thirty,  as  the  number  that 
could  be  safely  regarded  as  a  full  supply — being 
five  to  each  person — and  I  promised  to  procure  them 
in  time.  I  can  never  sleep  late  in  the  morning  out 
side  of  a  city  or  large  town.  I  know  not  why  it  is, 
but  in  the  country  I  am  always  awake  by  the  earli 
est  dawn.  It  was  so  here — I  was  wide  awake  be 
fore  the  day -break,  and  as  I  lay  listening  to  the 
ceaseless  sound  of  the  river,  I  heard  the  first  song 
of  the  first  bird  of  the  morning.  I  rose  and  dressed 
myself,  and  long  before  the  sun  had  thrown  a  ray 
upon  the  mountain,  I  was  ready  with  my  rod  and 
basket,  to  redeem  my  promise  of  the  night  before. 
I  could  have  caught  the  requisite  supply  of  trout 
within  sight  of  the  house,  but  I  chose  to  have  a  ram 
ble,  as  well  as  a  pleasant  time  with  the  fish  before 


352  -APPENDIX    B. 

breakfast,  and  I  started  off  up  the  stream  that  came 
down  through  the  valley  I  spoke  of  in  a  former  let 
ter.  A  pathway  led  up  the  valley,  which  I  follow 
ed  for  a  mile.  I  have  written  so  much  about  the 
music  of  the  woods,  that  it  may  well  have  become 
tiresome,  but  I  venture  to  still  say  that  it  seemed  to 
me  I  never  heard  the  songs  and  sounds  so  full,  so  va 
ried,  so  gleeful  and  so  happy,  as  they  appeared  to 
me  then.  On  every  side,  and  from  everywhere 
came  the  voices  of  wild  things,  some  loud  and  bois 
terous,  some  solemn  and  deep,  some  hoarse  and  gut 
tural,  and  others  clear  and  shrill,  but  all  blending 
in  nature's  harmony,  and  all  full  of  gladness  and  joy. 
There  is  no  sorrowful  sound  among  the  voices  that  one 
hears  in  the  woods — sounds  of  terror  there  may  be ; 
the  thunders  roll  through  the  sky,  or  burst  in  start 
ling  peals,  the  tornado  sweeps  by  in  its  wrath  and 
majesty,  the  tempest  roars  in  its  power — all  these 
speak  of  the  mighty  strength  and  power  of  God, 
but  there  is  in  the  whole  range  of  natural  voices 
that  one  hears  in  the  wilderness,  no  accent  of  sor 
row,  no  note  of  grief. 

A  mile  up  this  valley  I  came  to  a  clearing  of 
some  half  dozen  acres,  which,  however,  was  without 
a  possessor.  The  fences  were  all  gone,  the  roof  of 
the  log-house  had  fallen  in,  the  chimney  had  fallen 
down,  and  blackberry  bushes  clogged  up  the  door, 
while  the  rank  weeds  grew  where  once  was  the 
floor.  The  settler  that  made  this  clearing,  had 
abandoned  it  long  ago.  The  wilderness  was  too 


"THE   SAINTS'   REST."  353 

lonesome  for  him.  His  wife  pined  for  her  kindred, 
and  after  two  or  three  years  of  solitude  and  trial,  he 
departed  leaving  this  cleared  spot  in  the  forest  as 
the  only  memorial  of  his  former  presence.  As  he 
left  it  so  it  remains,  excepting  such  decay  and  deso 
lation  as  comes  with  time,  and,  as  is  sure  to  be  writ 
ten,  upon  what  is  abandoned  by  the  care  of  man.  I 
sat  down  by  what  was  once  the  door-yard  of  this 
primitive  dwelling — a  spring  of  pure  cold  water 
came  bubbling  up  at  my  feet,  and  ran  away  in  a 
little  brooklet,  to  the  large  stream  that  I  heard  in 
the  distance.  The  sun  was  just  beginning  to  illum 
ine  with  his  first  rays  the  peaks  around.  The  thin 
mist  was  stealing  slowly  up  the  sides  of  the  moun 
tains,  while  around  me  still  lingered  deep  shadow, 
and  the  grayness  of  the  morning  twilight.  I  sat 
here  for  half  an  hour  watching  the  sunlight  chasing 
the  shadow  in  a  long  line  down  the  mountain  sides, 
and  listening  to  the  sounds  that  were  coming  from 
the  woods  around.  From  within  the  old  walls  of 
the  old  log-house,  among  the  rank  weeds  and  bro 
ken  timbers,  a  porcupine  came  stealing  out,  and  un 
conscious  of  my  presence  wandered  all  around  me, 
seemingly  looking  for  grass-hoppers,  and  insects  or 
worms  that  were  chilled  by  the  night-damps.  He 
came  to  the  little  brook,  within  a  rod  of  me,  and 
drank ;  I  remained  perfectly  still,  and'  he  wandered 
carelessly  away  into  the  woods,  never  discovering 
that  the  thing  he  took  for  a  stump  by  the  spring, 
was  a  man. 


354  APPENDIX    B. 

I  rigged  my  fishing  apparatus  and  struck  through 
the  woods  to  the  stream  that  I  heard,  and  which 
flows  towards  and  empties  into  the  Sinnemahoning, 
within  a  few  rods  of  the  "  Saints'  Best."  My  hook 
had  scarcely  touched  the  water  when  it  was  seized 
by  a  trout.  I  found  no  difficulty  in  supplying  the 
promised  number.  I  had  caught  thirty  in  fishing 
less  than  that  number  of  rods,  and  that  after  reject 
ing  all  the  small  ones.  I  added  eight  to  the  num 
ber,  and  then  returned  by  the  path  along  the  valley, 
and  by  which  I  had  entered  the  forest.  I  was  back 
while  all  my  companions  were  yet  sleeping  soundly 
in  their  beds.  I  said  I  hear  again  old  sounds  that 
were  familiar  to  me  in  my  boyhood.  They  are  the 
cow-bells  in  the  woods,  and  the  sheep-bells  along 
the  fences ;  the  woodman's  axe,  as  he  battles  with 
the  forest,  and  the  crash  of  the  trees  as  they  come 
thundering  to  the  ground ;  the  cackling  of  fowls  in 
the  barn-yards,  and  the  loud  baying  of  the  house 
dog,  as  some  new  sound  stirs  in  the  forest — all  these 
are  like  household  words  to  me,  but  they  belong  to 
the  "  long,  long  ago." 

It  is  a  curious  thing  to  watch  the  growth  of  a 
region  that  is  young  and  wild — to  see  it  change  from 
a  wilderness  into  a  fruitful  and  populous  country — 
to  look  upon  the  march  of  civilization,  as  it  moves 
along  with  a  slow  and  toilsome  progress,  sweeping 
away  the  old  things  of  Nature,  and  spreading  out 
all  around  the  things  that  pertain  to  its  dominion. 
Some  bold-hearted  adventurer  inarches  into  the 


"THE   SAINTS'   BEST."  355 

woods,  with  his  axe  on  one  shoulder  and  his  rifle  on 
the  other,  and  falls  to  chopping  down  the  great  trees. 
Presently  there  is  a  spot  in  the  forest;  on  which  the 
sun  shines  down  bright  and  clear.  The  logs  and 
brush  are  burned  up,  and  a  field  of  grain  waves  in 
the  summer  winds.  After  a  little  will  be  seen  a 
log-house,  and  a  woman  sitting  on  the  door-sill  with 
a  brood  of  tough,  hardy  little  ones,  tumbling  and 
frolicking  about  her.  You  will  hear  the  blows  of  an 
axe,  as  the  settler  battles  with  the  tall  forest  trees, 
and  you  will  hear  them  through  the  day  crashing 
and  thundering  to  the  ground.  You  will  hear  the 
barking  of  a  house-dog,  the  cackling  of  fowls,  and 
the  quacking  of  the  ducks  and  geese.  You  will  hear 
the  loud  ding-dong  of  the  cow-bell  in  the  woods, 
and  the  tinkling  of  the  sheep-bells  along  the  fences. 
These  are  new  sounds  in  the  forest,  and  the  old 
woods  may  know  by  them  that  their  time  is  come. 
Away  off,  perhaps  miles  away,  another  hardy  settler 
puts  up  his  cabin,  and  makes  war  on  the  ancient 
forest  trees.  Year  after  year  the  woods  are  pushed 
back  by  the  fences.  Fields  spread  out  wider  and 
wider,  until  settlement  meets  settlement,  and  the  old 
primeval  things  have  vanished  away.  Painted 
houses  have  succeeded  the  log-cabins.  Flocks  and 
herds,  feeding  in  rich  pastures,  are  everywhere  seen. 
The  sound  of  the  woodman's  axe;  and  the  crash  of 
the  falling  timber,  is  still.  The  burning  fallows, 
sending  their  dense  columns  of  smoke,  wreathing 
and  curling  towards  the  sky,  are  things  that  have 


356  APPENDIX  B. 

ceased  to  be,  for  the  old  woods  have  been  swept 
away.  The  ding-dong  of  the  cow-bells  and  the 
tinkling  of  the  sheep-bells  are  no  longer  heard. 
Stage-coaches  are  rolling  along  the  highways,  or  an 
engine  dragging  with  lightning  speed  a  train  of 
cars,  loaded  with  human  freight,  goes  thundering 
along  the  valleys.  Villages  and  great  farms,  and 
school-houses,  and  church-spires,  are  everywhere 
seen,  filling  up  the  view  that  once  swept  over  a 
boundless  forest.  Civilization  has  settled  down  with 
its  train  of  concomitants,  and  the  things  of  old  have 
vanished  from  its  presence. 

As  it  has  been  elsewhere,  so  will  it  one  day  be 
here.  Farms  will  be  spread  out  in  these  valleys, 
fields  will  creep  up  the  sides  of  the  hills.  These 
streams  that  have  rolled,  during  the  long  forever  of 
the  past,  in  untrammelled  freedom,  roaring  and 
surging  in  the  spring  and  autumn  freshets,  and  flow 
ing  pleasantly  and  quietly  in  the  summer  months, 
will  be  harnessed  into  the  service  of  man — be  chain 
ed  to  the  revolving  wheel,  and  made  to  grind  corn, 
or  throw  the  shuttle  and  spin.  True,  these  tall 
mountains  will  stand  here  in  all  their  solemn 
grandeur  as  they  now  do,  but  these  broad  forests 
that  they  now  overlook  will  be  gone.  The  great 
trees  that  give  a  sombre  beauty  to  their  steep  acclivi 
ties  or  crown  their  lofty  summits,  will  pass  into  the 
structure  of  human  dwellings,  or  edifices  erected 
by  human  labor. 


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